


if this be error

by alykapedia



Series: an ever-fixed mark [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alykapedia/pseuds/alykapedia
Summary: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.If this be error and upon me prov'd,I never writ, nor no man ever lov'dYuuri Katsuki wants nothing more than to retire back to the country and busy his days with managing his family's declining finances. At twenty-three, he is facing his fifth season in society unmated and with no prospects in sight.At least until Lord Viktor Nikiforov makes him an offer he would be foolish to refuse.





	1. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Author's Note:**

> so i posted an idea for a regency au back on my tumblr a while back and it has...snowballed into another multi-chapter fic because i love suffering. i got waylaid by this from the author au which will update...soon-ish idk. the rating for this will...eventually go up? it'll just be a hard T for the most part but there will be porn. specifically: hermaphrodite omega porn, so if that's not your cuppa, i will be warning for it eventually so you guys won't have to read it.
> 
> special thanks to the tumblr crowd who seemed interested when i first posted my rambling idea for this and forochel who knows so much abt this fic already bc i keep blurting out spoilers and shit
> 
> apologies for any historical inaccuracies! i did a lot of googling and went on a jane austen movie binge, as you do, but ahh mistakes will still abound (esp writing styles bc gOD) so gomen 
> 
> title and poem from my dude, willy shakes. specifically sonnet 116 ("the marriage of true minds")
> 
> as always, hit me up for any glaring mistakes. the terribleness is all mine.
> 
> (edit: the lovely forochel has helpfully pointed some things out SO THANK)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an unmated omega in possession of a not-inconsiderable dowry, is in want of an alpha. Except, perhaps, for one Yuuri Katsuki who, for the longest time thought that he was but a beta, and thus had harbored no such pretensions unlike the rest of his omega peers in catching a handsome alpha in possession of a good fortune. This has not changed even after his late presentation at eighteen, nor has it changed after nearly four years under the patronage of the Lady Minako, and Yuuri is certain that it will not change in the years to come, when he will finally be deemed too old for the marriage mart and he can go back home to the country and spend the rest of his days managing the finances for his family’s inn.

Not that his thoughts on the matter will ever deter the Lady Minako in dressing him up and presenting him to the ton every season like some prized jewel. Yuuri also does not think that he will ever have the heart to deprive her of the honor of dressing him up like a beloved child. He owes much to the Lady Minako and her Lord husband; they’d taken him under their patronage after his presentation, saving both Yuuri from an uncertain future and Lord Cialdini from a scandal if word had gotten out that he had been sponsoring the studies of an omega.  

“You’re not dressed yet?” 

Still, Yuuri wishes that she’d let him skip a few balls once in a while. There’s only so much dancing and posturing he can take, and it’s not as if skipping one measly ball would spell the end of the world.

Yuuri huffs, putting his book down as he stands and looks up to see Minako standing by the doorway to the library, already in full dress with her lips twisted into a frown. “Must I?” He asks, even as he shrugs on the perfectly tailored dinner jacket a maid handed to him earlier. “I’m sure my presence would not be missed,” he adds rather stubbornly, fumbling with the frames of his glasses before taking them off and hiding them inside his coat.

Minako merely raises an eyebrow in response. “I can easily enumerate a good number of people who will miss your presence very much should you decide to waste your night away with a book you’ve read a hundred times already, my dear Mr. Katsuki.” She says, finally entering the room to fix his cravat, still untied on his neck. “The debutante, for one, Mr. Chulanont, and Lady Crispino, to name a few, will no doubt be hounding me for your whereabouts, and do you really want to subject your dear patron to that torture?”

“No, of course not,” Yuuri acquiesces easily. He had almost forgotten that tonight’s ball was for Guang-hong’s debut and it would not do for Yuuri to skip out, lest he cause offense to his young friend.

“Chin up, Yuuri,” she says, taking a step back to straighten his coat before deeming him presentable enough. “You might just meet your future spouse tonight.”

“It’s been five years, Lady Minako,” Yuuri begins, hands clasped in front of him in an effort to keep them from trembling. It’s only a shame he cannot quite do the same for his voice. “What makes you think I’ll ever find a match?”

A gloved hand cups his cheek, gentle, and Yuuri takes a shuddering breath that does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. “Hope springs eternal,” Minako murmurs, smiling at his bemused expression, “I do listen to you sometimes when you wax poetic about your books. We must keep faith, Yuuri. I am confident that you will find love before this season ends.”

“That makes one of us.”

It’s a testament to how well she knows him that Minako simply quirks a grin and pats his cheek. “Well, it’s a good thing I have enough hope for the both of us. Now, come, Mr. Nishigori’s already waiting outside with our carriage and I do not wish to be too late.”

Letting out a sigh, Yuuri offers Minako his arm as they make their way down to the foyer where a maid is already waiting to open the door and usher them out. The night air is cool against his warm skin, an almost chilly breeze nipping at his cheeks and the tip of his nose. It’s a welcome respite from the past few nights’ muggy London air that left Yuuri kicking the covers away and sweating through the linen of his nightshirt, and he eagerly breathes it in.

Just as Minako had said, their carriage is already waiting by the front steps and Yuuri watches as the footman hurries down to open the door and assist Minako inside. The rustle of silk accompanies Minako’s ascent, and Yuuri quickly follows suit after he gives Mr. Nishigori a friendly nod.

And then they’re off, the carriage ferrying them down Piccadilly, rows of townhouses flying past in a blur before they’re turning the corner and coming to a stop in front of a brightly-lit townhouse that Yuuri recognizes as the Ji’s London residence. He’s only been there once, when Phichit had dragged him along for afternoon tea, touting Yuuri as some sort of authority on omega debuts and Yuuri had to tell a newly-presented Guang-hong that, while he’s been on the marriage mart for some time now, he is by no means an authority on it, especially when Yuuri still finds himself at a loss as to how to act like a _proper_ omega, whatever that means.

There’s the usual cacophony of noise as their footman makes the necessary arrangements for their welcome. Yuuri peers through the small window of their carriage to see the front door to the house opening, just in time for their footman to head back and open the carriage door for them. From here, Yuuri can already hear music playing, as well as the faint sound of laughter. He steps out with a small huff as his boots land solidly on the pavement and he turns to help Minako out, waiting as she emerges from within the carriage, a shawl thrown artlessly over her dress.

“Looks like we’re just in time,” she says with a wide smile and Yuuri has to shake his head in mild amusement.

Minako always makes it a point to arrive fashionably late, except for the official and important engagements she attends with her Lord husband. But those events were few and far between and thus, for the majority of the time, Minako, and by extension, Yuuri, always arrives when the balls are already in full-swing and everyone has downed a glass of wine or more.

“Save a few spots on your dance card, Yuuri,” Minako says in an undertone as they’re welcomed by the Ji’s butler and ushered down a winding hallway to the ballroom. “I have some acquaintances I’ll be sending your way.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to bat away all the eligible alphas lining up for my hand.” The statement leaves his lips in a harsh whisper, laden heavily with all the sarcasm and vehemence Yuuri can muster. Which, as it turns out, is a lot.

Because if Yuuri is even half as desirable as Minako is making him out to be, he would not be out hunting for a spouse four years after he’s had his coming out. Unfortunately, Yuuri isn’t. He’s barely a tenth of how Minako is making him out to be. He’s plain and unassuming, too stubborn to be tamed, too learned for someone whose dynamic dictates he be but a broodmare for some brainless alpha with deep pockets, and already too old for the tiring game that is the marriage mart. Any alpha who picks him is scraping the bottom of the barrel. Yuuri is no catch—he barely even counts as a choice.

As it is, Yuuri will be lucky if he manages to dance with anyone who isn’t his friend.

“I apologize,” he says quickly when he catches sight of the stricken look on Minako’s face. The butler’s booming voice, announcing their arrival, drowns out his voice but Yuuri forges on, “I did not mean to sound ungrateful—”

A firm squeeze to his arm silences him. “The fault is mine,” Minako says, concern knotting her eyebrows. “I should not have forced you to attend. Mayhap you can make your greetings to the young debutante and call on Mr. Nishigori to take you back home.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Yuuri says, even though every fiber of his being wishes to flee to the safety of his room, far, far away from the rest of the beau monde and its stifling stares and ridiculous expectations. “I will stay and try, as you have constantly told me, to have fun.”

“ _Yuuri_.”

“It’s fine, my lady.”

Gaze sliding fluidly away from Minako, Yuuri looks to the crowded ballroom, hoping for something that will diffuse the tension he had thoughtlessly wrought. He feels his eyebrows rise when he spots Phichit at the far corner of the room, surrounded by a small band of increasingly incensed young alphas.

 _Typical_.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I fear Mr. Chulanont has been left unsupervised for too long and I must intervene for everyone’s sakes.”  

With a parting nod to Minako, who still looks ostensibly worried, Yuuri makes his escape. After four years of attending countless balls, Yuuri considers himself something of an expert at navigating through a ballroom relatively unscathed and mostly unnoticed and he saunters towards Phichit without catching too much attention.

He arrives just in time to catch one of the alphas threatening Phichit with bodily harm and Yuuri smoothly steps in, one hand curling around his friend’s arm in a practiced move. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Yuuri greets with a confidence he most certainly does not feel, and is gratified when the young alpha, the third son of a baronet if Yuuri’s memory serves correct, looks properly chastised at his presence. “Do you mind if I borrow Mr. Chulanont?”

“Of course not.” Another alpha, barely out of puberty, says quickly.

“Good. Excuse us.” Yuuri smiles, lips tight and grip even tighter around Phichit, who thankfully follows after him without remark. Although of course, Yuuri has a feeling that his friend is only saving his mouthing off for later when they are no longer in mixed company.

“Mr. Katsuki, I—” A Lord Chen starts with a flush on his face and Yuuri pauses, turning back to raise an eyebrow at the young alpha. It would not do for Yuuri to cut anyone after all.

“Yes?”

The flush on Lord Chen’s face deepens and Yuuri quickly nurses his face into something less severe; Mari did say once that his raised eyebrow can bring babes to tears, and Lord Chen, despite his towering height and almost pungent alpha scent, is still but a green boy. “Er. Nothing.” The boy quickly answers, shaking his head. “I just—wanted to wish you a good night.”

“Thank you.”

Yuuri gives a small, curt bow before finally sweeping out with a silently snickering Phichit in tow. He can’t help but roll his eyes as they make their way to a nearby table populated with refreshments; Yuuri’s been on the receiving end of many an awkward proposition from alphas hoping to, as Phichit says, get lucky, for years now and he really wishes that they’d refrain from doing so, especially when he knows that they’re merely tasteless jokes because no alpha in their right mind would proposition someone like him.

Beside him, free from Yuuri’s grip and grinning like a loon, Phichit measures out two glasses of wine—a Bordeaux by the looks of it—and hands one to Yuuri with a slight flourish. “A drink for my knight in shining armor,” Phichit says, before continuing with a nod to the group of alphas they just escaped, “you never fail to impress me, Mr. Katsuki, one word from you and all the green boys start behaving.”

“Don’t start.” Yuuri bites out before swallowing down the wine in one gulp, much to Phichit’s surprise.

Phichit wordlessly refills his glass, eyes wide and Yuuri allows himself a small smile—it’s not every day he manages to shock his friend into silence. He doesn’t like to drink in public, avoids it as politely as he can, but Yuuri needs a drink right now and he knows that he can trust Phichit to steer him away from any potential scandal he might cause in his inebriation.

“You’re in enough of a mood to start drinking in public,” Phichit says carefully as he finishes his own glass. “Let me guess, marriage talk again?”

Yuuri reaches for the sherry.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Yuuri says, topping his glass off and pouring some for Phichit as well. “Now, tell me, how is Mr. Guang-hong?”

Phichit hums, turning Yuuri with a hand on his elbow so that he’s facing the dance floor where a fast-paced quadrille is happening. Right at the very center is the debutante, resplendent in a lavishly-embroidered gown that must have cost quite a pretty pound, swept in a dance with a taller partner Yuuri can’t quite get a good glimpse on what with all the movement.

“I think that’s the fifth dance he’s had with Mr. de la Iglesia,” Phichit quips as the music swells, and Yuuri barely refrains from choking on his drink.

“Fifth?!” Yuuri turns his eyes back to the dance floor where Mr. Guang-hong was indeed engaged in a dance with Mr. Leo de la Iglesia, and looking as if there’s no place he’d rather be. He’s happy for his young friend, truly, but five dances?

There’s a horrified look on Yuuri’s face and Phichit quickly quells it with a pat on his arm. “Lady Ji already asked to talk to Leo’s family by the third dance,” he says, nodding towards the Ji matriarch who was currently engaged in a conversation with one of Guang-hong’s cousins. “There will be an engagement before the fortnight is over, I just know it.”

“If there is, it will be a cause of much celebration.”

It is, after all, no secret that the two are exceedingly fond of each other, and Yuuri remembers Phichit saying a season ago that Mr. de la Iglesia has been waiting for Mr. Guang-hong’s debut to the ton to properly court the omega. And now that Mr. Guang-hong is now part of the marriage mart, it seems that Mr. de la Iglesia is wasting no time in getting him off of it.

Yuuri hopes that what Phichit says is true; staying on the marriage mart for years on end without any possible prospects is not an experience he wishes on any omega.

There’s a burst of cheers from the dance floor when the quadrille comes to a close and a new song, a waltz this time, starts to play. Yuuri’s thoughts flit to his empty dance card and has to hide a frown against the rim of his glass, remembering Minako’s earlier reminder. He’s just about to take another sip when Phichit plucks his glass away and sets it down on the table.

“Phichit—”

“Dance with me,” Phichit says, already leading Yuuri to the dance floor before he can manage a response. It’s such an obvious ploy to keep his mind away from wandering and Yuuri cannot help but smile even as he rolls his eyes at his friend’s antics.

He lets Phichit lead him into a waltz, occasionally taking the reins when they fall off-beat. “I am fine, truly,” Yuuri murmurs once they’ve made a few turns, squeezing Phichit’s shoulder. “I just cannot help but think that there’s something wrong with me. Maybe all those years thinking that I’m a beta have ruined me for the rest of my life as an omega and I can never hope to find a spouse.”

A sound of distress leaves Phichit. “You know that isn’t true,” Phichit says fiercely, suddenly stopping and almost making them collide with another pair of dancers. 

“Isn’t it?” Yuuri wonders aloud when they start dancing again, with him leading Phichit this time around. “Perhaps I should have accepted Lt. Wallace’s proposal all those years ago.” It’s a half-hearted joke; Yuuri wouldn’t have married the man if he’d been the king, but it’s still a niggling thought that haunts him.

“What, and be a broodmare for the rest of your life?” Phichit hisses and Yuuri barely suppresses a flinch. “That pig wasn’t interested in _you_ , he was just interested in your, what was it that he said—”

“Fertile womb,” Yuuri answers and quickly adds, “yes, well, at least I will no longer be a burden to Lady Minako.”

This time, Phichit leads them away from the dance floor completely and towards a servant carrying an array of drinks. He takes two glasses of what looks like wine and hands one to Yuuri, before emptying his and reaching for another. “You would have been unhappy and I would be hanged for murder because I would have slit his throat for you,” Phichit says with a surety that Yuuri feels in his very bones.

Finding himself at a loss for words, Yuuri takes a long pull of his drink, grimacing when instead of wine, he gets a mouthful of brandy.

“Yuuri, you will find your match,” Phichit says after a moment, voice soft and Yuuri’s heart trembles inside his chest. “If you don’t find one when this season ends, you can always marry me and we will have a litter of dogs that we will name after fencing terminology.”

It’s an old joke between them, something that Phichit at fifteen had said to comfort a newly-presented Yuuri. On days like this one, he almost wants to say yes, but Yuuri does not wish to trap his friend into a marriage of convenience and he wants for Phichit to find a love match if his friend ever decides to marry.

Yuuri shakes his head, endlessly fond and ever so thankful for his friend. “You can do so much better than me.”

“No, I cannot,” Phichit says in a tone that brooks no arguments and Yuuri decides that he’s not quite in the right mood to argue with his friend. At least, not tonight.

A beat of silence passes between them and Yuuri empties a few more glasses of wine and brandy, ignoring the way Phichit’s eyebrows are rising with each one he downs. He’ll be regretting it come morning, Yuuri knows, but he might as well enjoy something while he’s here. A sudden commotion at the far end of the ballroom catches their attention. When a pair of familiar voices reach their ears, Yuuri and Phichit share an almost long-suffering look.  

“You get the Lady Sara, I’ll handle Lord Michele?”

Yuuri gives him a mock-salute. “I wish you the best of luck,” because dealing with an overprotective Lord Michele is a task Yuuri will not willingly volunteer for.

Phichit makes a show of rolling his eyes before he’s off, darting in and out of the crowd towards the Crispino twins. Meanwhile, Yuuri has his glass refilled by a passing servant, as well as a glass of punch for Sara, before he also makes his way to the twins, albeit via a less direct route. He still gets waylaid by a few greetings and short conversations, that by the time Yuuri approaches Sara, he’s had his glass replaced thrice and is finally feeling the effects of all the drinks he’s had—that last bit of sherry might prove to be his undoing.

“Mr. Katsuki,” Sara greets with a shallow bow. She’s outfitted in a lovely violet dress that brings out her eyes with her hair twisted up in an elaborate knot and Yuuri finds himself easily returning her smile. “Please tell me you’re here to whisk me away because if I have to spend another minute with Mickey, my parents might just lose an heir,” she whispers harshly when he comes close enough and Yuuri has to shake his head at the melodrama.

He hands Sara the glass of punch and she takes a grateful sip. “Mr. Chulanont caught sight of your plight and we thought it prudent to stage a rescue.” Just behind Sara, Yuuri can see Phichit engaging a suitably confused Michele in a conversation, along with a grinning Mr. Nikola and has to grin. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

“Yes, you may.”

Another waltz follows on the heels of the earlier one when Yuuri and Sara step onto the dance floor and Yuuri allows the music to guide them.

“Thank you,” Sara says, feet quick and light as Yuuri leads her into a turn. “I love my brother, but sometimes, he can be a bit much.”

Yuuri has known the Crispino twins for far too long to know that that description of Michele is one of restraint. “What has he done now?”

Sara’s lips twist into a small frown. “The usual,” she says, and means that her brother has once again scared off any and all potential suitors. “It’s as if he thinks that I will run off to Gretna Green with the first alpha who looks at me and I’m almost tempted to do just that to spite him.”

“Do give me a warning before you do so,” he quips, earning a raised eyebrow from Sara. “I’d have to schedule a trip to the country to avoid the fit your brother will no doubt throw.”

Sara does not even bother to stifle her giggles, earning them a few disapproving glances from the other dancers. “Heavens, can you imagine?”

“Quite well, actually.” Before his presentation, Yuuri had been on the receiving end of Michele’s suspicious stares, what with Sara taking to him easily, so Yuuri has a very clear image as to what would happen should Sara make good on her threat.

“I promise to give you a call before I run off to Gretna Green with my imaginary suitor,” Sara swears, and Yuuri knows that if they weren’t currently dancing, she’d be pressing a hand to her chest solemnly.

Yuuri nods, mock-serious. “That’s all I ask.”

“ _Oh_ , he’s here,” Sara says suddenly, eyes widening as she catches sight of someone over Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Who?”

“Lord Nikiforov,” comes the answer in a slight hush and Yuuri frowns in bemusement. He thinks he’s heard the name in passing, but he can’t be completely certain as his attention has been overtaken by his family’s business matters for the past few days, so he lets Sara continue. “He’s been the talk of the beau monde for weeks now. He inherited his land and title from a distant relative a few months back, but he’s really a tradesman from Russia. Papa says he owns half the boats currently docked at the port right now,” Sara recites easily, turning them so that Yuuri gets a better view of the man.

And what a view it is.

No wonder the ton had taken to this Lord Nikiforov even with his career in trade. The man is a _vision_ ; tall and broad at the shoulders, with blond hair that looks almost white under the light, and bright blue eyes that are piercing even with Yuuri’s less-than-perfect eyesight. And a small part of him, a part that Yuuri tries his best to ignore and repress at all times, perks up and under his cravat, Yuuri can feel the sharp throb of his mating gland.

“He is rather handsome,” he allows, turning back to Sara with a benign expression firmly in place.

However, the bland look on his face does nothing to deter Sara’s excited utterance of his name. “ _Yuuri,_ ” Sara says, full of meaning that Yuuri does not want to parse. It’s glaringly obvious what she means anyway and Yuuri really should have known better than to think that it is only Minako and Phichit who will perform this whole song and dance with him.

“I do have eyes.” That, and Yuuri is perfectly allowed to admire a man who looks so terrifyingly attractive that a bright red flush is burning like wildfire on his cheeks. As if he’s some green boy lacking self-control and awareness.

“You know,” Sara starts, steering them ever closer to where Lord Nikiforov is standing with Viscount Giacometti and his husband. “Lord Nikiforov is an unmated alpha.”

Dragging his heels, Yuuri whines out a “Sara, no,” right as Sara successfully maneuvers them to the edge of the dance floor.

“Why not?”

The huff of laughter he lets out sounds hysterical to his ears. “There’s an entire selection of more eligible omegas in this ballroom, yourself included. Why would an alpha like _him_ be interested in an omega like _me_?”

Just as the words leave his lips in a pained whisper, because Yuuri would have been better off as a beta no matter what everyone says, he looks up to see blue eyes staring into his own, and Yuuri’s breath hitches in his throat. There’s a second of breathless clarity, and Yuuri feels almost weightless, as if there’s no one else in the room but him and Lord Nikiforov, but it passes quickly enough and leaves Yuuri feeling as he just ran a marathon. He snatches his gaze away when the frantic beat of his heart becomes deafening, only to be met by Sara sneaking a peek over her shoulder where Lord Nikiforov is definitely making his way towards them, eyes never leaving Yuuri.

Like an alpha in pursuit.

_Oh._

“Well,” he hears Sara quip over the panicked cacophony inside his head that’s screaming at him to drop Sara’s hand and go far, far away. “It looks like he’s plenty interested.”

Yuuri runs.

 

.

 

“Who is that?”

The question leaves Viktor’s lips unbidden, and he almost regrets it when the conversation around him stops, Chris and Mathieu pausing their discussion to look at him curiously. They follow his gaze to where the young Lady Crispino was engaged in a dance with the young man that had caught Viktor’s eye. A young man who moves with a dancer’s grace and had the most enchanting eyes Viktor has ever had the pleasure of seeing, framed by dark lashes that brush almost teasingly against blooming cheeks each time he blinked.

“The Lady Sara?” Chris asks, and it is thanks to their many years of friendship that Viktor recognizes Chris’ tone of voice. A particular tone that tells Viktor that Chris knows exactly what he’s talking about but is refusing to admit to it for some reason or other. And Viktor absolutely loathes that tone of voice because pulling teeth would be easier than getting anything out of Chris when he was in this mood.

Still, it does not mean that Viktor won’t press for information. If Chris insists on being stubborn, then Viktor will be doubly so. “No, not her,” he says because Viktor has no interest in the girl, but on the young man leading her in a twirl. “Him. Who is he?”

Humming deep in his throat, Chris adjusts his cufflinks before affording Viktor a look underneath his lashes. A play at being coy, even though they both know that Chris is so far removed from being anything close to bashful. “That depends on why you want to know,” he says, a carefully curated smile firmly in place.

Whoever this young man is, it is becoming glaringly obvious that Chris is protective of him and it does nothing but endear him even more to Viktor.

Yakov did always despair at his obstinacy.

“You do realize I can ask anyone here about who he is.” It’s not something he will enjoy doing, but Viktor will consider it should Chris remain unmoving in his stance.

He has always been something of a presence in the ton. It wasn’t something Viktor thoroughly enjoyed, but it did give him the connections to establish himself even further—the beau monde, with its love for decadence and extravagance, was good for business and if there was something Viktor knew best, it was business. Of course, now that he’s inherited land and title, as well as a fair bit of fortune, from some heretofore unknown relative, Viktor’s gained a sudden surge in popularity and with it, a bevy of solicitations from high society mamas wanting to parade their newly-pubescent children in front of him.

“Yes,” Chris acquiesces, the edges of his smile curling into a smirk. “But we both know you won’t do that. So tell me why you want to know.”

Viktor means to say something vague; let a stream of empty, flowery words spill forth from his lips because honesty has no place in high society, but instead he finds himself saying what the excited thrumming of his pulse is urging him to say. “He’s beautiful.” An understatement, if anything; Viktor’s travelled all over the world and he’s never seen anyone half as beautiful as the young man dancing with the young Lady Crispino. “I wish to get to know him better. Perhaps ask for a dance.”

The smile on Chris’ lips dissolves into a thoughtful frown and Viktor suddenly feels as if he’s being thoroughly assessed by his friend, all his faults laid out in an unflattering spread. He hesitates, dares another look at the mysterious man who’s caught his attention to thoroughly, and tastes disappointment like noxious bile on his tongue. There’s no conceivable way that the man in question is not already promised to another and Viktor is already too late.

“Is he already spoken for?” Viktor asks even as he dreads the answer. He does not miss the way Chris and Mathieu exchange covert looks and feels dread pool in the pit of his stomach.

Eventually, Chris lets out a soft sigh and says, “quite the opposite, actually.”

“What?” It’s the height of absurdity to feel offended on someone else’s behalf, but Viktor manages it just fine. “Is everyone here blind?” He demands. While he’s glad that the man is not affianced to anyone, it’s surprising that anyone could look at him and not want to put a ring on his finger and he tells Chris and Mathieu so.

The two exchange another look and Viktor lets his gaze go back to the young man and meets wide eyes the color of cognac staring back at him. Viktor feels faint, as if he'd been born anew, _no_ —he feels as if he’s never known life before until now. It’s a breathless sort of feeling, exhilarating, and Viktor imagines the ice in his heart being thawed away by the warmth in those brown eyes.

“That’s Mr. Yuuri Katsuki,” Mathieu says, just as brown eyes leave his bereft, and Viktor lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yuuri,” he breathes out, the name rolling out of his tongue easily. It’s familiar and yet not and Viktor is overcome by the sudden need to say Yuuri’s name for the rest of his life, for it to be the only name he knows and will worship and adore forevermore. “And he is unmated?” Viktor confirms even as he makes to move and go to where Yuuri is standing, to close the distance between them.

And then Yuuri runs.

Viktor almost follows after him, if not for Mathieu’s firm grasp around his arm. A primal part of him wants to growl, to raise his hand and wreak havoc, but it’s quickly silenced by the more rational part of him that knows that each and every one of the shiny baubles pinned on Mathieu’s uniform were earned. He’d rather not face off against a naval officer.

“Damn it.” Chris swears under his breath and Viktor shares the same sentiment as they watch Yuuri break away from Sara and disappear into the crowd. “He’s shy,” Chris explains, a stricken expression on his face, “and you’ve scared him away without even talking to him.”

The grip on his arm loosens but the tightness in his chest, brought about by Yuuri running away, stays and Viktor musters up the most pitiful expression he has. “Chris, help me talk to him, please.”

“I sometimes think that you are more trouble than you’re worth, my friend,” Chris tells him as he nods at someone behind Viktor. “Let’s see how you measure up with Mr. Katsuki’s friends, shall we?”

Footsteps sound behind him and Viktor turns to see the young Lady Crispino and a sharply-dressed young man stopping a few steps in front of him. The pair makes no secret to their appraisal and Viktor barely fights the urge to do a spin, let them look their fill. Chris’ earlier words about the two being Yuuri’s friends are the only things stopping Viktor from making an annoyance of himself.

It goes on for a few more tense breaths until Viktor is saying, “I do not mean to cause offense to Mr. Katsuki.”

Lady Crispino startles, and she lets out a soft chuckle as she waves a hand. “Oh no, there was no harm done. Mr. Katsuki just has a lot on his mind tonight and he does not always do well with strangers. His disappearance has nothing to do with you.” Except it does, if the way she’s looking at him attentively is of any indication.

Yuuri is, as Chris said, very shy, Viktor recalls, and he curses himself for letting his gaze linger so. “Is he well?” He asks, turning also to the young man who has yet to introduce himself; too busy leveling Viktor with a placid smile.

“He’s just out for some air,” Lady Crispino assures him, nudging her companion with an elbow.

As if finally coming to a decision, the young man holds out a hand that Viktor clasps in a firm handshake. “Phichit Chulanont,” he introduces himself briskly, taking out a bronze pocket watch with a flick of his hand. “You have maybe an hour before Mr. Katsuki’s patron starts looking for him,” Mr. Chulanont says and it takes Viktor a few seconds to understand what he’d just heard. “You’ll find him at the third balcony on the right. Don’t make us regret this, Lord Nikiforov.”

“I won’t,” Viktor manages to say before he’s ducking into the throng of people, navigating through the crowd and cutting people left and right. He scoops up a glass of wine from a passing servant and downs it easily, using it as an excuse to ignore the Lady Martin who will no doubt try to introduce him to one of her daughters, despite Viktor making it very clear that he has no interest in them. And then he’s off again, finally making his rather circumspect way to the row of balconies and heading towards the third one with its doors slightly ajar.

Shouldering his way to the balcony, Viktor takes a deep, bolstering breath before finally stepping outside and leaving the ballroom behind him. He closes the doors with a nudge of his foot, and the noise catches the attention of the figure leaning against the railings and looking up at the London skyline. With bated breath, Viktor watches as the figure turns and the eyes that had enchanted him so back at the dance floor widen in recognition.

If Viktor had thought that Yuuri was beautiful then, it’s nothing compare to now. Bathed in cool moonlight, Yuuri looks absolutely ethereal and Viktor thinks absently that they will have to create a new word just for this man, because _beautiful_ sounds almost trite and lacking. Enthralling eyes, a soft face, and lips of a color that puts roses to shame; Yuuri Katsuki is exquisite in all the ways and Viktor _wants_.

“Good evening, my lord,” he says, performing a small bow as he makes his way closer, as if pulled along by an invisible string.

Yuuri startles before inclining his head shyly. “I’m no lord,” he says, peering up at Viktor through dark lashes.

Taking Yuuri’s hand gently in his, Viktor bows once again and lets his unworthy lips touch the warm skin of Yuuri’s knuckles and earns himself a sharp intake of breath. “Then what shall I call you?” He asks, meeting Yuuri’s eyes over their hands and Viktor’s lips are burning from the contact. This close, he can smell the faint yet maddening scent wafting from Yuuri, hidden under layers upon layers of herbs that tickle his nose.

“Just Mr. Katsuki will do, Lord Nikiforov,” Yuuri replies and heavens above, Viktor wants to hear him say his name, wants to know how that sweet mouth will shape it and if it will taste just as sweet.

It is difficult to tear himself away from where his face is pressed close to where he can take a whiff of the slightest hint of Yuuri’s natural scent that reminds Viktor of fresh apples and spring, but he manages. He straightens up but does not let go of Yuuri’s hand as he says, “will you honor me with a dance, Mr. Katsuki?”

Hesitance blooms on Yuuri’s face, as well as on the fine lines of his body, and for a few, tense seconds, Viktor thinks that he might run away again. But Yuuri’s hand stays firmly in his, and when Viktor looks up from admiring the ruddy flush staining the other man’s cheeks, he sees those deep, russet eyes crinkle at the sides, adding yet another more dimension to their beauty.

“There’s no music,” Yuuri points out, even as he allows Viktor to pull him close, one hand settling on his back, slightly lower than what propriety would allow. If Yuuri minds, he makes no show of it, and Viktor has to fight down the shiver travelling down his spine when Yuuri’s other hand finds a home on his shoulders.

“Isn’t there?”

The sounds from inside the ballroom filter out into the night air, its gentle strains wrapping around them like a warm cloak. A soft huff leaves Yuuri and before long, they are moving in small circles in the cramped space of the balcony.

Their first few turns are little more than inelegant fumbling; Viktor hard-pressed to keep up with a far more talented partner. He has not danced in a very long time, preferring to stand in the sidelines whenever he has to attend a ball, and Viktor is feeling the full brunt of his inexperience now. He had thought that he would be able to feign his way through something as simple as a waltz but apparently not. 

This almost feels like retribution for all the times he’d laughed at Yuri and Mila having to attend dance lessons.

“You’re too stiff,” Yuuri admonishes with a tut after another unsuccessful turn, smoothing his hand down Viktor’s shoulder. “You’re fighting against the music instead of letting it guide you,” he continues, letting go of Viktor’s hand to prod and pull at Viktor to his liking. “Do you fence, my lord?”

“I do,” Viktor answers easily; fencing being one of the few gentlemanly pursuits that Viktor enjoys and excels at.

Yuuri nods before moving back in position, Viktor following after a shuddery breath.

“Then think of this as fencing without the foil,” Yuuri says, instructs, moving with a new fervor that Viktor quickly adapts to. “And instead of the sound of metal, let the violin guide your footwork,” he continues and Viktor finds himself following, imagining all the drills he’d had to do and trying to transform them into a dance.

Soon enough, he’s leading Yuuri around the balcony, light and quick on his feet, and his success comes in the form of Yuuri’s delighted laughter, bright and tinkling as they step out of an exuberant spin.

“There, isn’t that much better?”

“It is,” Viktor breathes out, heart racing inside his chest as he’s hit by a potent cloud of Yuuri’s scent, distilled and unhindered by the herbs. Underneath the high collar of his shirt and coat, Viktor feels the almost stinging throb of his mating gland, ravenous for a bond, and he blames it for the next words that leave his treacherous mouth. “I find it exceptionally curious that an omega like yourself remains unmarried.”

And just like that, Yuuri’s scent sours.

“You mean an omega past his prime?” The question is cutting; Viktor can feel its serrated edges rend painfully at his flesh as Yuuri rips his hands away, taking a step back to level him with a glare. “Because that is what I am, my lord. By the end of the year, I will be twenty-four and will be deemed too old to find any sort of advantageous match,” he spits the words out with a venom Viktor never thought him capable of but understands—omega rights are nonexistent and the restrictions passed upon them numerous.

“Twenty-four is hardly old,” Viktor says. He’s never understood the appeal of taking a mate barely out of puberty, an unfortunately common practice in the beau monde with older alphas snatching up very young omegas, and he personally thinks that Yuuri is just at the ripe age for marriage. “I’m nearing thirty myself.”

“Yes, but you’re an alpha and that means that you can be old and decrepit and you would still have your choice of omegas lined up and trained to spread their legs for you!”

A shocked silence falls upon them swiftly. Yuuri’s face, which had been flushed with ardor, drains quickly of color. Yuuri reeks of fear and Viktor wants to say something, offer words of assurance that he takes no offense, but he can’t seem to find them and has to watch in horror as Yuuri crumbles in on himself.

“I apologize—“ Yuuri says haltingly, bottom lip trembling as Viktor approaches. “I have no idea what came over me and I can only hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me—“

Yuuri’s cheek is warm in his hands and Viktor echoes the gasp the other man lets out. He keeps his touch gentle, the tips of his fingers barely grazing Yuuri’s skin as Viktor tilts his head up.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Viktor says in a whisper, “if anything, I beg your forgiveness for my rash actions. I simply do find it strange that anyone can look at you and let you go.” Yuuri’s breath comes out in a hiccup, eyes widening at the gravity of Viktor’s words. And Viktor, Viktor is too far gone already to worry about propriety, too overcome by the emotions welling up inside him. “You are exceptional, Mr. Katsuki, and I’m afraid that you have taken my heart.”

A sob leaves Yuuri’s pink lips, making Viktor’s heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. “Everyone says that but nobody ever means it.”

“I’m not like everyone.” Because he isn’t, and Viktor will make sure that he will never end up like everyone who had hurt Yuuri before, who made him feel unwanted and unloved.

“You say that, but come morning, you’ll have long forgotten about me,” Yuuri says with a shake of his head, hands coming up to pull Viktor’s away from his cheeks. “You’re just like everyone else, Lord Nikiforov.”

Viktor allows his hands to be pulled away, only to catch Yuuri’s hands as he asks with an urgency he feels in his very bones, “and has everyone else asked for your hand in marriage?”

“What?”

“I wish to court you and marry you,” Viktor says and means the words as a promise he is keen on fulfilling. Yakov is always telling him to settle down, so why not now?

Mouth falling slack, Yuuri visibly falters, staring at Viktor in disbelief, before he says silently, almost pleading: “Then make an offer.”

“I will.” Nodding, Viktor presses an almost feverish kiss on Yuuri’s hands before he lets them go. “I will give you a call first thing in the morning, along with my offer.”

Before Yuuri can give him a response, a sharp knock sounds from the balcony doors, followed by a large man dressed in the livery of a footman peeking in to nod at Yuuri. It seems that Viktor’s time is up. “It’s time to go, Mr. Katsuki,” the footman says, before bowing and disappearing inside with a short bow to Viktor.

“I—“ Viktor starts, only to be cut off by Yuuri’s finger on his lips, silencing him with a single touch.

Biting down on his plush bottom lip, Yuuri says in a sigh, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lord Nikiforov.”

 

.

 

Yuuri wakes with cotton in his mouth and his head.

The drapes hiding his room away from the glare of the harsh morning sun have long been pulled away and Yuuri sluggishly opens his eyes, gaze blurry from sleep. He does not know what time it is, but he already knows that it is too early for him to truly be alive. He hears the familiar sounds of Kenjirou puttering about, as well as the tinkling of china, heralding the welcoming aroma of tea that reaches his nose.

Fine, Yuuri will wake for tea.

“Good morning, Mr. Katsuki!” Kenjirou greets, far too loud and inexplicably happy as always, his cheer chasing away the sleep from Yuuri’s thoughts and intensifying the growing headache forming in the back of his head. “Her Ladyship wants you fed and dressed post-haste,” the boy continues, and Yuuri groans as hands pull the covers away. “You have a long day ahead of you.”

Pulling himself up to a sitting position, Yuuri reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and puts them on, and is quickly bombarded by the sight of Kenjirou’s bright hair disappearing into his closet. “What do you mean a long day ahead?” He croaks out, reaching for the cup of tea already waiting for him. “We have nothing planned today.”

Unless of course, Minako had changed her mind overnight, which is always likely.

“Yes, but you have a call, Mr. Katsuki!” Kenjiro announces and Yuuri almost spills his tea.

“I have a _what_?”

Because surely Yuuri did not just hear that he has a—

“A call, Mr. Katsuki!” Kenjiro repeats helpfully, wrestling a pair of pants away from Yuuri’s closet and laying it out on the bed. “A suitor has come for your hand first thing in the morning! He gave us all quite a fright, showing up so early! Why, Mr. Nishigori thinks he’s been there at the crack of dawn!”

Yuuri chokes, the memories from last night viciously coming back underneath the haze of alcohol. It wasn’t a dream; dancing with Lord Nikiforov, yelling at a complete stranger and allowing said stranger to touch him so freely, demanding that Lord Nikiforov court him and make an offer for marriage—Yuuri did not dream it all up, which means—

“Mr. Minami,” Yuuri says faintly, handing his cup to a bemused Kenjirou. “I fear I have committed a terrible mistake.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so regency is kindamaybe an excuse for everyone to be v dramatic. ALSO. yuuri is drunk, my dudes, so pls be gentle with those "BUT THEY'RE SO OOC" accusations. i am of a tender countenance and bruise like a peach.
> 
> anyway. idk if 7k+ words per chapter is sustainable??? so uh, future chapters might be a bit shorter.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ alykapediaaa


	2. A Frantic Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Marriage? You barely even know this Katsuki boy and already you’re proposing marriage?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh MAN. Apologies for the wait, but this chapter was a ride. I wasn't expecting it to be this long??? (8k+ words because the only one who can beat me is me) And because of that, I had to move a few scenes to the next chapter (which, necessitated a change of chapter titles /sobs)
> 
> All my love to the lovely [forochel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel) for the beta and listening to me yell and scream about this for days on end. You're the real MVP, coach HAHAHA. 
> 
> Any and all remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone :D

The last time Yakov had given him a lecture this interminable and humdrum, Viktor had been freshly fifteen—fey and so skinny he was little more than a slave to the harsh winds—and he had fallen overboard, or as the captain of the _Aria_ still liked to say, _reclaimed by the ocean_ , as if Viktor had not been some grubby, miserable, and orphaned ragamuffin from the docks that Yakov Feltsman, with his bleeding heart, had taken on. Viktor still remembers it clearly; the _Aria_ had been en-route to France, its belly awaiting a large shipment of wine, when a particularly strong gust of wind had blown him away, loosening his hold on a backstay and tossing him head-first into the water. Georgi screamed after him. While Viktor remembers how he’d fallen and the hours-long lecture from Yakov afterwards, he does not remember how he’d gotten back to the ship. Everyone in the crew—including Georgi, _the traitor_ —had decided to follow the captain’s lead and claimd that the ocean did not want him back after all and had spat him back onto the deck.

When one has this in his consideration, a scolding may hardly be deemed a proportionate response to a marriage proposal to a delightful young man. It is, as a matter of fact, highly incongruous, because Viktor has never felt more alive than he does now; had he not known Yakov half as well, he might almost feel insulted, but Viktor does know Yakov, and he knows that the best thing to do right now would be to let the man tire himself out.

“Are you mad, boy?!” Yakov is yelling still, and Viktor would feel terrible about not listening, if not for the fact that he has been treated to this exact same tirade for the fifth time since he broke his fast. In that span of time, Mila has beaten Yuri in a few bouts and is now attempting to lift the boy over her head as she is wont to. “Marriage? You barely even know this Katsuki boy and already you’re proposing marriage?!”

Running an aggrieved hand through his hair, Viktor jumps up from his seat, body humming with an energy he knows not how to rid. He’s felt it ever since that morning, when he’d commandeered a chaise in hopes of laying eyes on Yuuri, only to be foiled by a stern maid telling him to leave his card and return in the afternoon, _Lord Nikiforov, when the rest of us are actually awake_. Viktor, in his eagerness to see Yuuri again, had forgotten all about society’s many foibles and it was only thanks to Altin’s quick thinking that the visit had not gone to waste, procuring a card from his person and handing it to the unamused maid.

“I find no reason to wait, Yakov.” Viktor says as he starts to pace the length of the ballroom-turned-salle. “My intentions are clear. I wish to marry Mr. Katsuki at the earliest convenience, if he will have me.” He does not remember ever wanting anything more in his life, and Viktor finds himself willing to do anything just for a glimpse of Yuuri’s smile.

Brows furrowing, Yakov asks a question that feels almost like a physical blow. Viktor thinks it would have hurt less had Yakov struck him with his cane. “Vitya, did you despoil the boy?”

“What?!” His shock is a palpable thing and Mila and Yuri, in their far corner of the room, look over curiously at Viktor’s sudden outburst. There’s horror burning inside his chest, mixed with a generous helping of hurt at Yakov’s insinuations that Viktor would do something as vile as to disgrace the man who has taken his heart. “No! Of course not!” His denial cannot be more vehement; hackles rising, his normally benign scent is turning into a pungent and sharp thing that has Yuri sneezing violently. “Yakov, you know I would never do that.”

“And that is the thing, Vitya! I do know you!” Yakov says, throwing a hand into the air, something he only ever does when he was frustrated. “And marriage has never been in your vocabulary, much less in that large head of yours!”

A few nights ago, it would have been the truth and Yakov would have been right in his declaration. But Viktor has been irrevocably changed, transformed overnight into a creature so different from who he was before that the truths that had defined him now feel like ill-fitting breeches. “Well, it is now whether you wish to believe it or not. I wish to marry him, Yakov.”

“God help us, of course you do,” Yakov sighs, a long-suffering sound that Viktor is very much familiar with. “You should have thought this through better, you idiot boy. One does not immediately go up and ask for someone’s hand in marriage unless one wants to start a bloody scandal, which you have, by the way.”

Viktor’s breath stutters in his throat. Years observing the wreck that was high society has made Viktor more than aware that a scandal can spell the end of things for one’s prospects, and now, he’s unknowingly caused one.

“A scandal?”

With a scowl twisting his face, Yakov nods and says, “Half the ton thinks you’ve ruined the boy, which is why you’re proposing the day after you’ve met him.”

This time, the breath does not even manage to make its way out of his suddenly tight chest. It’s only been a handful of hours since last night’s ball but already, the rumors have started--and it has chosen Viktor and his dear Yuuri as its victims. The ton’s rumor mill was known to be both efficient and vicious, and Viktor grimaces when he recalls last night and how he had ran his mouth and announced to Chris, as well as everyone else in the crowded ballroom, how he intends to marry Yuuri.

There had been nothing subtle about his intentions, and Viktor supposes that they had been gone long enough for people to come to the wrong conclusions about what had transpired in the balcony.

Still, it is difficult not to feel offense; not for himself, no, Viktor has no real need for the beau monde’s approval, but on Yuuri’s behalf, as any rumor casting doubt upon the nature of their relationship would no doubt have twice the repercussions on Yuuri’s reputation. Society has put too high a price on an omega’s virtue, whilst turning a blind eye to indiscretions committed by betas and alphas.

“It was never my intention to cause a scandal.”

Yakov’s scowl softens, easing into something much calmer as he heaves himself off the armchair, cane clutched tightly in his hand.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Yakov allows, making his way towards the door to no doubt retire to his study. Once he reaches the doorway, he affords Viktor a piercing look over his shoulder and says, “But that is what the ton thinks and what the ton thinks, unfortunately, carries much weight. That boy doesn’t deserve to bear the consequences of your foolishness–you will fix this before you pay him a visit.”

It is as much an ultimatum as it is approval and Viktor takes it, nodding with complete certainty. He has already decided that Yuuri deserves only the best that the world can offer, and a scandal is certainly not it; Viktor will do everything in his not-inconsiderable power to fix the mess he has created.

With luck, he will be able to do that and still be in time for afternoon tea.

“I will,” Viktor promises and waits only until the door is shut behind Yakov to approach Mila and Yuri in their corner. “Mila, you know something.”

Mila shrugs, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “If you’d come with me to the clubs like I keep asking you to, you would know things too, Vitya,” she drawls, blue eyes bright with mischief. Out of all of them, Mila is the one who had taken to the machinations of the ton with ease, ruthlessly capitalizing on her beauty and dynamic to make quite a formidable name for herself, and Viktor knows very well that he will need her expertise in navigating the agitated waters of high society. “It is fortunate then that I have an engagement in an hour.”

“Are you suggesting that we go to a club now?” It’s barely midmorning; surely no hardworking and honest man would be found in a club so early in the day, Viktor thinks, eyebrows knotting in consternation at Mila’s suggestion. “What sort of people would be at a club this time of day?”

Mila grins, the sharp curve of it a white slash on her flushed visage. “The sort who want to know things, naturally.”

And Viktor does, almost desperately so, enough that even his dislike of high society clubs will not deter him from going.

“Fine,” he concedes, straightening his waistcoat before turning his attentions to Yuri, who looks far too interested with the proceedings even with the dispassionate mien he tries to feign. He’d rather not deal with a surly stowaway later so Viktor quickly dashes whatever plans Yuri has of joining them with a firm, “You’re not going, Yura. You’re too young.”

“I am not too young!” Yuri hisses, bristling in anger and looking not unlike Potya whenever someone accidentally stepped on her tail.

From the way Mila is smiling, the resemblance is not lost on her.

Reining in his own amusement is no easy feat, but Viktor somehow manages, his aspect betraying nothing. “Not to mention that you have lessons with the Madame,” Viktor adds, watching in barely-concealed delight as Yuri deflates from the froth he’d worked himself into at the mention of Lilia. “So up you go.”

“I hate you both.”

With that thrillingly contemptuous retort, Yuri proceeds to storm out, foil dragging behind him noisily. Viktor makes a note to have an apology prepared for the rest of Yuri’s tutors as the boy will no doubt be a terror come afternoon, and he can only hope that a dance lesson with the Madame will help sort his belligerent ward out.

“We love you so, Yura!” Mila calls after him cheerily only to be met with the slamming of the door, before addressing Viktor with a succinct, “Wait for me outside?” She’s still garbed in her fencing kit and looking far too disheveled for polite company.

“Do be quick,” Viktor says as they make their way out of the ballroom. He understands better than anyone the importance of dressing appropriately when in Town, and Viktor has always been thankful for how their trade has given them intimate knowledge of the most sought-after fashions, but he’s also very well aware of the amount of time they have until his call to Yuuri.

“It’s as though you don’t know me at all,” Mila says, trotting up the staircase. “I’ll be just a tick, Vitya. You won’t even miss me!” She calls out over her shoulder as she practically runs up to her room, a terrible habit neither Yakov nor Lilia have managed to dissuade her of.

Shaking his head, Viktor saunters down to the foyer where Altin is already waiting with his coat and leather gloves. “Altin,” he greets, taking the proffered gloves and sliding the leather, worn and butter-soft, over his hands. “Do make sure that Yura behaves and that he does not reduce any of his tutors to tears.”

It’s a rather tall order, Viktor knows, but Altin is a miracle worker who deserves a sainthood, and serves not only as Viktor’s valet but also Yuri’s keeper whenever the situation calls for it. Yakov had raised his eyebrows at the arrangement when he’d found out but Viktor had simply brushed it off, unwilling to subject himself to the lecture that would surely follow should Yakov ever find out about Yuri sneaking off at night to Vauxhall Gardens and getting accosted by a gaggle of strumpets. Altin, who had been following Yuri on Viktor’s orders, had quite literally plucked him off by the scruff of his neck and carted him home. Since then, Yuri has treated Altin much favorably than he ever did anyone else and would occasionally deign to listen to him, as some strange gesture of gratitude.

“I shall endeavor to do so, my Lord,” Altin replies smoothly, holding up a deep burgundy tail coat for Viktor to slip into. “Mr. Petrov is outside with the chaise.”

Altin most certainly deserves that sainthood, Viktor decides resolutely as he fusses with his cuff links. He’ll have to see if he can arrange a higher salary for the man; Altin’s earned it for having to deal with Yuri.

“Thank you, Altin,” Viktor says, affording his valet a curt nod. “Please tell Mila that I shall be waiting for her outside.” He gives his reflection in the large, ornate entrance hall a thorough appraisal. Viktor will have to go back and change into something else before calling on Yuuri, but for now, his current ensemble may do.  

“Yes, sir,” Altin says with a bow, retreating upstairs to do whatever it is he does, whilst Viktor walks to the door.

He’s greeted by a crisp mid-morning breeze when he steps out of the house. If not for the layer of pomade he combed into it, he’s sure that the breeze would have tousled his hair, making an absolute mess as Viktor climbs up the chaise.

Viktor’s only just made himself comfortable when Mila comes bounding down the front steps, looking almost rakish in her navy coat and buckskin breeches, her boots polished to an almost blinding shine. Her short red curls are tied up artlessly with a gold ribbon so that she appeared almost windswept, the hint of rouge on her cheeks and lips only adding to the effect. It’s a testament to the skill of her valet that Mila looks the way she does in so short a time—Viktor is under no such delusion that she managed to do so on her own.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were going out for day of debauchery,” Viktor intones, eyeing Mila with amusement as she sits down next to him after rattling off directions to Petrov.

Mila shrugs, adopting an imperious look and saying, “Who’s to say I’m not?”

Viktor can only laugh and shake his head at her repartee.

A hush befalls them as soon as the chaise starts to move, speeding down Oxford street and bypassing rows of townhouses; within these lavishly appointed houses dwell various members of the ton, who have probably taken as their jealous dues the opportunity to ruin Yuuri’s honor. And perhaps it is cruel to think so, but Viktor finds that he hasn’t the faculty to be kind to anyone who means his intended harm, be it upon his person or reputation.

It is with this thought weighing heavily on his mind that Viktor speaks again, breaking the silence and surprising Mila, who had been idly humming to herself as she looked out the window. “Is the beau monde so overrun with gossipmongers that my personal affairs have already been blown out of proportion?”

He is suddenly aware of the naiveté of his words and marvels once again at how a single night has changed him so completely.

“You forget Vitya, these high society sorts have never worked a day in their lives.” There is no judgment to be had in Mila’s voice when she answers, her tone and aspect gentle as she turns to face him. “Gossiping is their only pastime and you have made quite a stir by choosing Mr. Katsuki and not any of the other omegas in attendance last night.”

Making a noise of confusion, Viktor asks, “Why would I bother with any other omega when Mr. Katsuki is there?”

Here, Mila tilts her head to the side, looking at him as if seeing him through different eyes before breaking into a delighted smile and giggling. Under Mila’s veneer of a high society chit is the boisterous girl Viktor knows and loves as a sister, and she shines through now as their chaise enters a street lined with various clubs and cafes.

“Mr. Katsuki must be quite the tempting armful if he has you setting your cap after him with but one night of dancing,” she muses and Viktor nods, lips already curving into a smile at the memory of Yuuri’s beauty.

“Oh, Mila, he is,” Viktor sighs, sounding very much like the lovelorn heroes and heroines in the romance novels Georgi consumes so voraciously. “But he’s also so much more, I can feel it.”

Yuuri is not only unlike any other omega Viktor has met, but he’s also unlike any other person Viktor has encountered in all of his travels. Yuuri is singular, a beautiful surprise at every turn, and Viktor wants to spend the rest of his life uncovering each and every one of his secrets like the gifts they are. And once he has, Viktor will be the most fortunate man in the world, for he will have known Yuuri so perfectly, from the minute tremble of his dark lashes to every line and whorl that decorates the palms of his hands, from the worlds hidden in his arresting eyes to the smiles that are fortunate enough to touch his lips.

Viktor can only hope to be as fortunate as those smiles.

Their chaise gives a familiar lurch, the horses nickering to a stop in front of a two-tiered building made of dark-red brick. The club they’re going to is a quaint little thing, hidden between a cafe and a bookstore, its darkened windows offering not a peek of the goings-on within.  

Pushing the carriage door open, Mila gives him a piercing look, facade back in place, and says, “Best keep those feelings to yourself until we have been rid of the rumors.” Once they’ve alighted from their ride, Mila steps close, voice lowering to a whisper and Viktor looks over her shoulder at the entrance to the club. “Follow my lead and do try not to lose your temper.”

“Of course,” Viktor acquiesces, affecting a placid and empty smile. He shall be on his best behavior for Yuuri and Yuuri alone.

The club, when they step inside, is dimly lit and awash with the hum of conversation. There’s a pianoforte being played in the background, acting as a veil for all the chatter emanating from almost every corner. Although, of course, it must be said that the volume lessens considerably once attention has been called to their arrival, and Viktor feels several eyes land on him as he follows after Mila.

He has been to taverns and pubs, brothels and countless more dens of iniquity, yet Viktor finds that he prefers them to the stuffy clubs and assembly halls of high society. Grimy and crawling with unsavory characters they may be, they still possess a certain honesty that establishments like Almack’s have lost, too wrapped up in delusions of grandeur. At least in the clubs and taverns, if someone wanted to stab you, they’d do so with a knife.

“What exactly is this engagement you spoke of?” Viktor asks as Mila leads him further into a warren of lavishly-furnished rooms, towards where a young woman was playing the pianoforte.

“Do you recall a Mr. Leroy?”

Viktor has vague recollections of a dark-haired young man that Yuri had had a very loud disagreement with on their last voyage; he’d been forced to put a stop to it before anyone was thrown overboard. “I’d rather not,” he says with a grimace that Mila only shakes her head at.

“Yakov asked me to take up with his lot for that deal you’re brokering with their company and I must say, Leroy’s really not as terrible as Yura has painted him,” Mila says, craning her neck to look over the densely-populated floor. “He’s a bit obnoxious and self-absorbed, but then again, who isn’t?”

“I fail to see the point, Mila.”

“His wife, as it turns out, is a very good friend of your Mr. Katsuki,” Mila finally says, an unbecoming smirk on her face as Viktor perks up. “And Mr. Leroy always brings Mrs. Leroy along, so you’ll have your chance to talk to her and make your case,” she continues blithely, just as the realization that he would have to talk to one of Yuuri’s friends again dawns on him. Mila doesn’t even bother to hide her mirth, cocking her head towards a couple seated near the staircase. “That’s them. Let’s go.”

While it is comforting to know that Yuuri is not without friends in the ton, Viktor wishes that he could have met them when the circumstances were less dire and he was not to blame for any affronts. He’d survived Mr. Chulanont and Lady Crispino’s scrutiny even after he’d caused Yuuri to literally run away last night, but now that he’s gone and caused a scandal, Viktor thinks that he will not be so lucky as to remain unscathed after a meeting with Mrs. Leroy.

Once again, Mila sets off, Viktor following after her and they quickly approach the Leroys. They’re still a few tables away when a heated exchange between Mrs. Leroy and some nameless woman—”That’s Miss Collins,”—reaches their ears. This far inside, the sounds of the pianoforte is nothing more than a faint memory and when Viktor and Mila move closer, they’re treated to a conversation that makes Viktor’s stomach churn unpleasantly.

“—would want someone like him. He must have tricked poor Lord Nikiforov into offering for him.”

Acid burns on his tongue, rendering him mute as rage threatens to consume him entire. Before Viktor can act upon the anger boiling deep in the very core of him, Mrs. Leroy narrows her eyes, looking upon Miss Collins and her posse with a contempt that would unnerve a lesser man.

“Tricking anyone into making an offer may be something you are more than familiar with, Miss Collins, but that is a practice that’s far beneath Mr. Katsuki.” _Much like you are_ , Mrs. Leroy does not say, but Viktor hears it loud and clear in the curve of her lips.

Beside him, Mila lets out a noise, one hand gripping Viktor’s arm tightly and tearing his attention away from the argument unfolding before them. “Miss Collins is engaged to Lord Sullivan but he has yet to actually marry her; it’s been a year since the reading of the banns,” she says in a harsh whisper, taking care to keep her voice low so that they are not overheard. “Some say he’s off gallivanting in the country and whelping bastards.”

It is then most baffling that Miss Collins would have the audacity to besmirch Yuuri’s name. And it is exactly the sort of hypocrisy that Viktor abhors about high society, and an almost cruel smile plays upon his lips as he prepares to deliver some much needed retribution unto Miss Collins.

“Mrs. Leroy, what a surprise to see you here!” Viktor greets, voice perfectly modulated, countenance not betraying anything as he draws nearer to the Leroys. He spares nary a look at Miss Collins and her group, an obvious snub that makes the edges of Mrs. Leroy’s mouth twitch. “And how fortuitous too! I was just having a lively debate with my cousin, Miss Babicheva,” he says, presenting Mila with a flourish, to establish some form of connection. From the widening of Mr. Leroy’s eyes and the way he leans over to say something to Mrs. Leroy, Viktor succeeds. “And I thought we might beg you and Mr. Leroy your good opinion.”

If Mrs. Leroy is, in any way, startled at the sudden address, she does not show it. Instead, she smiles and stands to perform a graceful curtsey, as if greeting a beloved friend and not a stranger. “Ask away, Lord Nikiforov.”

“Yes, well, you see I was wondering as to how long the banns must be read before one can marry,” Viktor begins, his smile growing wider as he continues, playing the clueless Russian tradesman well, his accent thickening. “I say four and Miss Babicheva says three. I thought it prudent to ask someone who’s had experience to shed some light.”

Mrs. Leroy hums, affecting a look of contemplation. “I’m afraid Miss Babicheva is correct. It takes three weeks for the banns to be read, after which a marriage license can be procured,” she answers. “I do believe the four weeks you are thinking of is the length of residency required to claim that you are part of the local parish.”

“I did tell you,” Mila quips with an air of long-suffering.

Viktor huffs out a laugh. “Remind me to never doubt your expertise, dear cousin,” he says, before turning inquisitive eyes at Miss Collins and her group.

“Three weeks seems such an age, do you not think, Miss Collins?” he asks, careful not to show his delight as Miss Collins’ eyes widen, the exaggerated pout of her mouth morphing into a horrified grimace. “Oh, do forgive me. It’s slipped my mind that you have been waiting for far longer than that.”

One of Miss Collins’ companions, a tall young man, lets out a startled laugh before remembering himself. But the damage has already been done, and soon enough, the rest of Miss Collins’ companions are bursting into amused chatter, whilst Miss Collins gapes up at him unattractively, mouth opening and closing as words continue to evade her.

“Do not speak of things you know nothing about,” Viktor tells her in an undertone, smile never losing its placidity. He knows not if it were his words or his countenance that did it, but it is not long before Miss Collins is scurrying off, her cronies following after her.

He hears Mila sigh, muttering something unflattering under her breath as she watches them scramble off like mice.

“You certainly know how to make an impression, I’ll give you that,” Mrs. Leroy says as she sits back down, eyes suddenly sharp. Once again, Viktor is suffering the scrutiny of Mr. Katsuki’s friends—who, if Viktor were any judge and Mrs. Leroy’s pursed lips any clue, are not terribly impressed with him. It’s almost refreshing, except for the fact that this is the one occasion where Viktor wishes to impress. “Would I be correct in assuming that you’re here to talk about Mr. Katsuki?”

Viktor takes one of the empty seat in the Leroys’ table upon invitation from Mr. Leroy so that he was sitting right across Mrs. Leroy. Mila occupies the other seat, crossing her legs as she settles in, seemingly content to watch him fumble through a formal introduction now that she’s completed her task.

Viktor takes a deep breath as he meets Mrs. Leroy’s eyes over the table. “It has been made known to me that there are rumors casting doubt upon the nature of my regard for Mr. Katsuki and I wish to offer my help in dispelling them,” he says and adds, as earnestly as he possibly can, “Mr. Katsuki should not suffer the consequences of my carelessness.”

Miss Collins’ comments are still echoing inside the far corners of his mind. He knows that what he heard earlier wasn’t even the worst of the lot; people are cruel and imaginative, and Viktor shudders to think what else Mr. Katsuki would hear if he failed to do anything to get rid of the rumors.

“No, he should not.” The expression on Mrs. Leroy’s face reminds him of Mr. Chulanont’s and Viktor knows that if he hadn’t interrupted with Miss Collins earlier, Mrs. Leroy would have said something far worse than what he’d managed and she would have done so with a smile on her face. “But you cannot help,” she adds dismissively.

“Mrs. Leroy—”

“Lord Nikiforov,” Mrs. Leroy says, cutting him off easily. “You must let us take care of our own. Unsavory though the rumors may be, they are but few. Mr. Katsuki is too beloved by the beau monde. Miss Collins and her ilk are a minority, and an insignificant one at that, so there is no need for worry; it is already in our care.” A smile then brightens up her face, most likely a reaction to his stunned silence as he tries to process all that Mrs. Leroy had said. “I do believe that your time will be much better spent preparing for your call this afternoon.”

There are perhaps a numerous combination of words that Viktor can say in response to that, but in the end he settles for a soft “Mr. Katsuki is truly fortunate to have you as a friend.”

It turns out to be the correct thing to say, because Mrs. Leroy lets out a tinkling laugh and says, sounding exceptionally fond, “Not nearly as fortunate as I am to have him as mine.” She considers him for a few more seconds before leaning over the table and saying, “Mr. Katsuki harbors a great fondness for blue flowers.”

 

.

 

Minako prides herself on knowing every single thing that happens in her household. It is only to be expected of a lady of her standing, as one cannot hope to maintain a successful household if one is ignorant of its daily workings. From the conditions of the horses down at the stables, to the books that Yuuri has taken out of the library, and even to the laws her lord husband is yelling about in parliament, Minako makes it a point to know everything, down to the tiniest detail.

It is understandable then that Minako finds it terribly vexing when she learns that her precious ward has apparently acquired a gentleman caller overnight without her knowledge. She left him alone for one night and Yuuri already has some nameless alpha showing up at their doorstep—

“He’s hardly a nameless alpha, my Lady,” Mr. Chulanont points out from his sprawl on the chaise lounge, and Minako has half a mind to scold him for it.

“A Russian tradesman,” Minako scoffs, haughtily unimpressed. She knows who Viktor Nikiforov is, of course. She has known of him even before his relations started dying left and right and began bequeathing him with parcels of land, titles, and ridiculous amounts of money. She knows of him and what she knows do not endear him to her at all; she would have Viktor Nikiforov go on his knees in supplication before she deems him worthy to even dream about touching Yuuri’s hand. “How did this happen?”

Yuuri has to be forced to talk to anyone, and Minako cannot imagine her recalcitrant ward willingly approaching someone like Viktor Nikiforov.

“Well, Mr. Katsuki was drinking quite a lot.” Lady Sara has the grace to look properly chastised when she says it, avoiding Minako’s gaze and keeping her eyes focused on her cup of tea.

Minako sends up a prayer to the heavens before bidding Mrs. Nishigori fetch the sherry, uncaring of social mores inside the safety of her home. She shall be needing it to bolster her spirits, and she has a feeling that even their strongest black tea won’t do, not when Lady Sara and Mr. Chulanont appear increasingly guilty as the seconds tick by, throwing each other panicked glances every now and then.

Once the first glass of sherry has trailed a burning path down to her belly, Minako takes a deep, calming breath before finally addressing her ward’s friends once again. “Would anyone be so kind to enlighten me as to how Yuuri drinking ended with Lord Nikiforov appearing at the crack of dawn for a visit?”

Mr. Chulanont and Lady Sara both make surprised noises, Mr. Chulanont straightens up from his sprawl while the Lady Sara finally lifts her gaze, the cup in her hand set down on its saucer with a small clink.

“He actually did it,” Mr. Chulanont breathes out, eyes wide and unseeing before turning his attentions to an equally shocked Lady Sara. “Lady Minako,” he begins, after a few beats of silent conversation, “We don’t quite know how it all happened; all that is certain is this:  they both disappeared into the balcony and when they came out, Lord Nikiforov made his intentions towards Yuuri known to the Viscount Giacometti very loudly.”

She has a multitude of questions that require answers, but for now, Minako settles for the most important one. “And what are those intentions, Mr. Chulanont?”

“Marriage.”

Minako cannot help the way her breath hitches, nor can she stop the way her hands shake at the word; she finds that she can easily overlook all her reservations about Lord Nikiforov should he prove to be sincere in his interest in Yuuri.

“Marriage,” she echoes, letting the word rest on her tongue lest it disappears. “He spoke clearly?” She gets to her feet, the agitation proving to be too much on her already unsettled nerves. “You are certain that you did not mistake it for anything else?”

“We are more than certain, my Lady,” Lady Sara answers in lieu of Mr. Chulanont, shifting to the edge of her seat and sporting the largest smile Minako has ever seen on her face. “He made it rather clear last night that he intends to make an offer for our dear Mr. Katsuki. Today.”

At the Lady Sara’s pronouncement, Minako falters, hands finding purchase against the back of her armchair. “Today? During his visit?” she asks, making a note to have their cook change the plans for afternoon tea. It will all have to be done in a rush, but Minako has complete confidence in her kitchen staff. “He’s not wasting any time, now is he?” Lord Nikiforov has only met Yuuri last night, of this Minako is sure, and it is nothing short of astonishing and worrying that he should move so quickly. “Oh, heavens, there must be talk already.”

The ton will not be kind, not even to Yuuri who has somehow earned its favor by virtue of being himself and Minako fears the worst: her earlier elation gives way to uncertainty as she starts to imagine the kind of unsavory tales people would be spreading.

“There are rumors,” Lady Sara confirms, before adding rather hastily, “But there is no need to worry! We all have it under control.”

If anyone else were to tell her those exact words, Minako would throw all caution to the wind and ride out to every single person who had been in attendance at last night’s ball and give them a stern talking-to. But Yuuri’s friends, as she had learned very quickly, were not to be trifled with when it came to things such as dispelling rumors before they even started.

It still astounds her sometimes how her reticent ward has made so many friends. Minako does not think that there is a single social circle in the beau monde that Yuuri is not a part of. Although, of course, Yuuri would deny this vehemently and remain staunch in his belief that he has but a handful of friends.

“It’s just Miss Collins and her nasty little pit of vipers, and a few other jealous mamas who were hoping to get their hands on Lord Nikiforov’s fortune,” Mr. Chulanont supplies further, wearing a sneer that appears foreign on his face.

“As if they stood any chance!” Lady Sara crows, manners completely forgotten--a testament to how comfortable she is in Minako’s home. “Why, the moment Lord Nikiforov laid eyes on Mr. Katsuki, he could scarcely look away!” She lets out a jubilant giggle, looking far too pleased with herself, as she adds, “Mr. Katsuki too,”

The words, spoken sotto voce, has Minako sitting down once again, reaching for the bottle of sherry and pouring herself another glass.

“What do you mean?” Minako asks, even though there is only one meaning to be gleaned from the elation on both Lady Sara and Mr. Chulanont’s faces.

Mr. Chulanont laughs, a bright and happy thing. “Mr. Katsuki thinks him handsome.”

“Our Yuuri?”

Surely not Minako’s ward, who has striven to be as frustratingly ambivalent and vague about his opinions, ever so careful of his words and manner lest they be misconstrued as something else by wagging tongues. Surely not Yuuri, who has never complimented anyone so publicly before, preferring instead to keep his thoughts to himself.

The claim seems almost fantastical, but stranger things have already happened, and Minako has, in all the years she has been treated to their acquaintance, never known Yuuri’s friends to commit to such falsehoods.

Finishing off her glass, Minako considers the situation that they all are facing in the wake of last night’s ball. Four seasons in town and it turns out all they needed was for a Russian tradesman to come knocking and sweep Yuuri off his stockinged feet. Minako refuses to put much stock in fate, finding it too fickle, but this certainly feels like it. A chance encounter out of so many that promises to lead to something more--mayhap even the happy marriage she’d wished Yuuri the moment she took him on as her ward.

A knock soon disrupts Minako from her musings and they all turn as one as the door to the drawing-room opens, admitting Mrs. Nishigori, who bows low.

“Mrs. Leroy is here to see you, my Lady,” Mrs. Nishigori announces, before Mrs. Leroy’s familiar figure appears.

Minako extends a warm reception to Mrs. Leroy, and she watches as the young woman sits down next to Lady Sara, looking as if she is practically bursting at the seams to regale them with a story. Given the subject of her earlier conversations with Mr. Chulanont and Lady Sara, Minako is confident that the words eager to be free from Mrs. Leroy is of Yuuri and Lord Nikiforov.

She is soon proven to be correct when after a round of polite greetings, Mrs. Leroy hastens to announce, “You would not believe who Mr. Leroy and I ran into at the clubs!”

But before she can tell them just who it was that she and her husband had seen, the door to the drawing-room once again opens to admit a harried Yuuri in half-dress, hair in disarray as if he had been running his hands through it.

“Lady Minako, I—” Yuuri starts, only to startle when he catches sight of the company Minako has been entertaining for the better part of the morning. Minako then watches in wry amusement as her ward collects himself, brown eyes wide behind his glasses. “What are all of you doing here?”

It speaks much of their familiarity with Yuuri’s character that they do not take offense to his reaction to their presence; Mrs. Leroy already entreating him to sit with them, drawing him easily into their discussion with her next words.

“Mr. Katsuki, we saw your Lord Nikiforov at the clubs today.”

“Lord Nikiforov isn’t mine, Izzy,” Yuuri is quick to say as he joins Mr. Chulanont on the chaise lounge.

Undeterred by Yuuri’s dismissal, Mrs. Leroy proceeds to tell them how Lord Nikiforov had silenced Miss Collins’ slander with a few choice words and how he’d offered to help rid of the rest of the rumors, before ending with a blithe, “Lord Nikiforov was also quite clear that his regard for you was most sincere.”

“His regard for me?” Yuuri chokes, incredulity bleeding into his tone.

“He wishes to marry you, Yuuri,” Mr. Chulanont adds, and it proves to be the breaking point of whatever calm Yuuri had been holding onto, because he’s shooting up from his seat as if he’d been burned.

Wringing his hands fretfully, Yuuri makes an agitated turn around the room in an almost futile attempt to regain his composure. Even so, Minako notes with interest that Yuuri is taking the whole situation far better than she thought he would. She’d expected him on a horse halfway across the country the moment he gained knowledge of Lord Nikiforov’s call. The fact that Yuuri has yet to make his escape tells Minako that there is so much more that they do not know about the circumstances of Lord Nikiforov’s interests in her ward.

“But he can’t!” Yuuri cries, stopping at the middle of the drawing-room to give them all a look of distress. “I made a complete mess of things last night,” he says, countenance the epitome of remorse.

“Yuuri,” Minako says gently, catching her ward’s attention, before asking the question burning on everyone’s tongue. “What happened last night?”  

Of all the ways she supposed Yuuri would react to her query, never in Minako’s wildest imaginings did she think that she would be watching him struggle to keep a smile away from his face. She is gratified to see that she is not the only one who has been rendered out of sorts by Yuuri’s response—Mr. Chulanont is openly gaping and Lady Sara and Mrs. Leroy are clutching at each other as they all wait for Yuuri to speak.

“We danced,” Yuuri says, softer than she has ever heard him, voice laden with so much emotion that Minako feels herself overwhelmed. “He’s a terrible dancer,” he continues, gaze far-away as a smile finally breaks through whatever barrier Yuuri has put up. “And then I yelled at him.”

“You yelled at him?” Now it is Minako’s turn to be incredulous, eyebrows rising at Yuuri’s admission.

“Because he said something about—about how he finds it curious that an omega like me remains unwed! And I lost my temper.” Along with his head too, Minako surmises, recalling Lady Sara’s earlier statement about how far Yuuri had been in his cups last night. “But instead of taking offense, he—” Yuuri falters, hesitating over his next few words. “He apologized.”

From the way Yuuri’s cheeks turn a violent shade of red, Lord Nikiforov definitely did more than just apologize to Minako’s ward, and she would find cause to worry if she thought Yuuri incapable of rebuffing any unwanted advances. As it stands, she is confident that nothing terribly untoward happened—Lord Nikiforov remains hale and healthy still.

After a short reprieve, Yuuri continues without prompting, the color high on his cheeks never abating. “And then he started saying that he thought me beautiful—a ridiculous concept, to be sure—and I told him in no uncertain terms that I disbelieved him and that he was just like everyone else, which only made him want to prove me wrong—”

The more Yuuri talks of Lord Nikiforov, the more Minako finds herself revising her earlier preconceived notions about the man. Not because of Yuuri’s words, no, but of the manner he speaks them; his tone and gestures belying an eagerness that Minako has only ever seen in Yuuri whenever he was allowed to pick up the foil or whenever he had leave to ride freely in his leathers.

If talking about the man calls up a spot of joy onto Yuuri’s cheek, then Minako shall gladly receive Lord Nikiforov into her home and confer upon him her blessing to court her beloved ward.

“So I told him to make an offer.”

Not that Lord Nikiforov needs it.

She can do naught but stare blankly up at Yuuri, who, as it turns out, has gone and invited a man he’s only just met to make an offer for him.

Dear god, Minako should have asked Mrs. Nishigori to bring out the brandy instead.

“And now he’s probably just being kind and is merely humoring me with this call,” Yuuri continues, heedless of the blow he had just dealt them with his revelation. “I acted so foolishly and I cannot think of any conceivable reason why Lord Nikiforov should want me.”

“Yes,” Mr. Chulanont says, the first of them to gather his wits and his voice as he stands, along with Lady Sara and Mrs. Leroy, setting upon Yuuri like a flock of brightly-coloured birds. “There is no reason at all except for the fact that he finds you absolutely enchanting!”

They lead Yuuri back to the chaise lounge, sitting him down as they prepare to disabuse him of whatever notion he has convinced himself of—Minako watching all the while and preparing to interrupt should there be a need for it.

“Yuuri, he’s not being kind. The man truly wants to marry you,” Lady Sara says, settling down on the floor that she might lean against Yuuri’s knees, looking up at him imploringly in an attempt to sway his opinions.

“Oh,” Mrs. Leroy sighs, “If only you had heard him, Yuuri, you would not have any doubts about his intentions. Even Jean thought so! Jean!” She ends with a gentle squeeze to Yuuri’s arm, and Minako would laugh if not for the stricken expression she espies on Yuuri’s face.

When Yuuri meets her gaze, Minako lets out an almost long-suffering sigh before she stands, approaching them with measured steps. Once she is close enough, she runs a gentle hand along Yuuri’s cheek like one might a greatly cherished child, which Yuuri is, although he was not of her womb.

“Yuuri,” Minako says, “If you do not wish to meet with him later, you need only tell me.”

She cares not one whit that this is the closest they’ve come to an offer for Yuuri, because what use would a marriage be if Yuuri will not be happy at the end of it?

“I wish to see him,” is what Yuuri says in response, and this time, surprise does not mar Minako’s visage, for the answer is already writ clearly on the determined set of Yuuri’s brow. “I wish for him to see me, without the effect of more than a few glasses of wine in my belly.” Pink lips quiver into a tremulous smile as Yuuri continues, brown eyes shining with a conviction that leaves Minako breathless. “And should his regard for me remain as it is, then I suppose I shall give him leave to court me. If that is all right with you, my Lady.”

This time, Minako does laugh.

“Oh, my dear, dear Yuuri. Of course it is.”

 

.

 

“I’ve changed my mind, Kenjirou, I can’t do this after all.”

Clad only in a thin chemise, Yuuri affords his reflection a grimace before immediately regretting the action, as all it does is emphasize every single blemish that mars his face. He is no great beauty, no matter what his companions may claim--his features are unremarkable, his complexion too pale, and his figure leaves much to be desired. And although he bears no great hatred for his own appearance, Yuuri hardly considers himself handsome enough to even think about meeting with a man of Lord Nikiforov’s station and beauty.

Mayhap he can still make his escape; everyone should be busy preparing for the visit that Yuuri can simply slip away to the stables and ride for the country. Minako probably won’t mind if he borrows a horse—

“Kenjirou,” Yuuko calls, startling Yuuri out of his plans to steal away before making her way to where Yuuri’s young maid is standing by the wardrobe, most likely despairing how difficult it is to hide all of Yuuri’s imperfections with muslin and lace. “Go fetch the petticoats downstairs.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nishigori!” Kenjirou cries, and Yuuri has to bite down on the laugh that threatens to burst forth from his lips when the boy performs a salute instead of a curtsey. He still ends up huffing out a sharp gust of breath when Kenjirou turns to him with a clumsy curtsey before finally taking his leave.

Once the door closes behind Kenjirou with nary a sound, Yuuri turns on his seat to face Yuuko, who immediately fusses at him.

“Yuuri,” she says, carding her fingers through his hair and brushing a few errant curls away from his brow. “Can you look at me and tell me that you truly do not wish to meet Lord Nikiforov?”

Yuuri knows himself capable of many things—even things that someone of his standing and dynamic ought not to be—but it seems that rejecting Lord Nikiforov, who made Yuuri feel so beautiful and so desired for the first time since his debut, is not one of them.

“No,” he confesses, before suddenly becoming overcome with dread. Because is it not the height of foolishness to chase after someone so unreachable? “But what if he truly does not want me? I think I am better off not knowing.”

At the very least, ignorance of Lord Nikiforov’s true feelings may spare Yuuri the heartache of rejection.

Yuuko scoffs. “What, and have you anguish for days about never knowing the depth of his regard? I think not.” Calloused hands flit from his hair to his cheeks and Yuuri feels his heart squeeze painfully in his chest, as he remembers a different set of hands that have cradled his cheeks so gently, enveloping him with warmth and the dizzying scent of pine—as if Lord Nikiforov carried with him the crisp winter air.

Yuuri absently wonders if the man would taste the same.

“Now you listen here, Yuuri,” Yuuko continues, halting the dangerous line of thought Yuuri is hurtling down. “Any alpha would be honored to even glance upon your smile.” Before he can utter a denial, Yuuko is speaking yet again. “Lord Nikiforov ought to be the one questioning if he is worthy of you, because you, Yuuri Katsuki, are a diamond of the first water.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Yuuko insists, taking his hands and bidding him stand. “Now, come, let’s get you dressed in something more appropriate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Lord Nikiforov and Mr. Katsuki meet again! YAY! 
> 
> Okay. So updates will...hopefully happen once a month, but uh, please be aware that I'm dividing my attention between this and my author au AND med school because I'll be going back by next week. And I ask for your patience in between updates. 
> 
> I've also written a [porny one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11487138) (a porn-shot, if you will) for this for NSFW Victuuri week, if you want to skip to the spicy parts. AND AND!!! Forochel, a true purveyor of A+ pornography, ALSO wrote for the verse and if you haven't read [this magnificence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11518152), then you should. 
> 
> Please help water my crops by commenting HAHA.


	3. Mr. Katsuki's Gentleman Caller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are absolutely smitten with this man, aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIVE!!
> 
> Apologies for the incredibly long wait, I just kinda struggled with writing this and I honestly have no other excuse. I do hope that everyone enjoys this longer chapter?? IDK I feel like I just keep on escalating with the word count every single time and I need to be stopped. Thank you to everyone who listened to me scream and cry about this on several chatboxes, as well as to everyone still reading this!! You're all great and I love you and I'm honestly just hoping that this thing is worth the wait
> 
> Mistakes may abound. This regency era writing style is very forgiving to my run-on sentences so, I mean, whatever, I'm hungry and sleep-deprived, my dudes and I have been staring at this thing for MONTHS, so pls do forgive any terribleness

Viktor has never before been more thankful for Lilia’s attempts at educating him in the arts than at this very moment. For without her lessons, he would not have recognized the tall, willowy woman who receives him with cool indifference the moment he steps inside the drawing-room. It has been close to a decade, Viktor thinks, since he has seen that familiar face illuminated by countless, glittering candlelights, and it is a small wonder how Madame Minako Okukawa still looks the same as if she had not aged a single day.

He hears the maid announce his name before the door shuts with a small click behind him, and he strides towards the center of the room, his posture as perfect as it can possibly be.

 _But not perfect enough_ , Viktor can almost hear Lilia say.

“Lord Nikiforov,” Madame Okukawa greets, rising from her seat and extending her hand in one smooth motion.

“Madame Okukawa,” Viktor responds easily as he takes her proffered hand in his, lips barely brushing against the cool satin of her glove. He straightens up, with a smile that thankfully does not falter in the face of Madame Okukawa’s assessment that is unfortunately leagues away from Mr. Chulanont’s or Mrs. Leroy’s.

And it catches Viktor unawares, reminds him of the looks he would get from the wry, old beta they get their bolts of silks from, the one who continues to be a thorn on his side, and he has the most ominous feeling that Madame Okukawa may prove to be much, much worse. She was Yuuri’s guardian after all, and his godmother besides, if Mila was to be believed. Hence Viktor is quite certain that should she find him lacking, Madame Okukawa would do everything in her not inconsiderable power to drive him away and destroy every hope he has of making Yuuri his husband.

Madame Okukawa then proceeds to level him with a seemingly disinterested stare that must be anything but, because Victor feels as if his every fault has been laid bare, his fears dissected, and his entire character judged in the span of a heartbeat. Viktor is no stranger to scrutiny; he has been the subject of many an investigation by simpering, high society mamas, as well as members of the gentry when he had inadvertently joined their ranks. However, it is only now, under Madame Okukawa’s keen observation that Viktor experiences discomposure.

“Yuuri says that your dancing leaves much to be desired,” Madame Okukawa finally says, and even had he the capability to, Victor would not have been able to keep a smile from alighting on his lips at the mention of Yuuri’s name, nor would he ever want to. His heart feels glad, giddy, that Yuuri has talked of him, even if it was to comment on his admittedly horrendous dancing, and he cannot help but wonder what else Yuuri has said about him. “Did Lilia Mikhailovna not teach you how to dance?”

It is almost impossible to rein in the laughter that threatens to burst forth from his lips at that pronouncement, but Viktor somehow manages it, his countenance thankfully betraying nothing. “She did, but I was a terrible student,” he admits after a few beats of silence, affecting a rueful mien. He remembers how Lilia’s efforts to make him into a proper gentleman only became frustrations, and ultimately ended with Lilia teaching him instead how to _appear_ like a proper gentleman without being one. “I was more interested in fencing and running a ship.” 

“And I imagine that there is a dearth of dance partners out at sea,” Madame Okukawa drawls, before sitting down and inviting Viktor to do the same with a nod. “Sit, please. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a bit more for the tea,” she says, gesturing at the low table where a tea set crafted from fine china and an ornate tea caddy sit. “Would you care for brandy in the meantime?” The question is punctuated by the tinkling of glass as Madame Okukawa reaches for the bottle.

“Ah, no, thank you.”

Viktor settles down on the nearby chaise lounge, the bouquet of blue hydrangeas he had bought from a bemused florist back at Hyde Park rustling when he lays it beside him. He can only watch as Madame Okukawa pours herself a generous measure of brandy, unsure how to proceed.

Before he can do anything exceedingly foolish like make a comment about the drapery on the wide windows, Madame Okukawa clears her throat and lowers her now empty glass.

“You must understand, Lord Nikiforov, that I have not the patience for doublespeak, especially when it comes to my charge,” she begins, gracing Viktor with a placid smile that does nothing to soothe his nerves. “So I shall be direct,” Madame Okukawa continues, the smile on her lips vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, the curve of her mouth turning severe. “What are your intentions on Yuuri?”

“I wish to court him,” comes Viktor’s answer, the words leaving his lips in a rush. He does not pause to think, not when the answer is as clear as day, not when there is truly no other answer to be had. “And if Mr. Katsuki is amenable, I plan to make an offer for his hand and make him my husband,” he says as sincerely as he is able; the words as plain and unassuming as he can make them, so that they may not be construed as anything else.

Because Viktor wants one thing and one thing only, and that was Yuuri’s hand in marriage.

“And what if I were to tell you that he has no dowry to speak of?” Madame Okukawa asks, eyebrow rising in question, continuing her queries without pause. “That he has no fortune whatsoever, and that he comes from a family of merchants who owns an inn down at Portsmouth?”

Her words are meant to be a challenge, of that he is certain, and Viktor would find cause for offense if he did not understand the Madame’s reasons for posing them. She means only to assess him further, he knows, but she could not have picked a more absurd set of questions.

After all, Viktor would be the very last person to put stock on one’s station and fortune.

For the first ten years of his life, he had not a single coin to his name; only had in his possession the grubby clothes on his back, and the envelope shoved into his coat pocket containing a sheaf of papers proclaiming his identity. He cares not one whit about Yuuri’s fortune or lack thereof, and he tells Madame Okukawa so.

“I was under the impression that I was marrying Mr. Katsuki, not whatever dowry he may or may not have,” he says in wide-eyed entreaty. “That he has no dowry, nor any fortune matters not, for my income is more than sufficient to sustain us both.”

Viktor’s coffers are endless; between his inheritance and his income, he is certain that they would want for nothing, even if they should decide to fill the estate with the pitter-patter of tiny feet and the sounds of children’s laughter.

Silence follows his statement, suffusing in the air like the cloying scent of the tea steeping on the table. Viktor fears that he has said too much, fears that he has been too presumptuous in his speech, and dread pools thickly at the bottom of his stomach as the stillness spools and stretches, until it is finally broken by the Madame clearing her throat while wearing an amused lilt on her mouth.

“You will have to improve your dancing,” Madame Okukawa says mildly, reaching once more for the bottle of brandy and refilling her glass. There’s an almost imperceptible change in her tone that loosens the tightness in Viktor’s chest, and if his tongue did not feel leaden inside his mouth, Viktor would have rescinded his earlier refusal for the drink. As the situation goes, however, Viktor barely possesses the fortitude required to not sink down into the cushions in relief. “My Yuuri is a most excellent dancer and it would not do for him to have an inadequate partner.”

Viktor nods eagerly, because there is nothing he would not be willing to do for Yuuri. “Then I shall have to ask the Madame Baranovskaya for dancing lessons again.”

“See that you do.”

 

.

 

“There is a much easier way to listen in, you realize.”

Yuuri knows not how long he has been standing outside the drawing-room straining his ears to hear the exchange between Minako and Lord Nikiforov, but it must be a considerable amount of time already if Yuuko’s words and raised eyebrow are to be taken into consideration. He knows that she means to chastise him into finally entering the room and resigning himself to his fate, as she is wont to. However, the trepidation he has felt ever since Kenjirou announced the alpha’s arrival — as if Yuuri had somehow missed the way his mating gland had throbbed in response to Lord Nikiforov’s scent — has yet to abate, even if the throbbing on his neck has, and Yuuri does not feel particularly enthused nor inclined to receive his very first gentleman caller.

It would not, as a matter of fact, be an exaggeration to say that Yuuri is completely terrified. He has absolutely no experience whatsoever in dealing with such things, and for not the first and definitely not the last time, he resolves never to drink again lest he end up with something much worse than a suitor.

“Mao says that he’s brought you flowers,” Yuuko points out before Yuuri can do much more than brush a gloved hand down the fine white muslin of his dress — one of the new ones that Minako had gifted him at the very start of the season. He remembers protesting the needless expense, thinking himself too plain for such an expensive and well-made gown, and while he still posits that another, much younger and handsome omega would look infinitely better in it, he is glad for the way it falls upon his figure, hiding away the imperfections and making Yuuri appear far more beautiful than he truly is.  

Pausing in his idle perusal of the gown, Yuuri blinks, the image of Lord Nikiforov arriving at their doorstep with a bouquet of flowers enough to bring an unbidden smile to his lips. “Has he really?”

“A bouquet of blue hydrangeas.” Yuuko confirms with an incredibly smug smile, eyes twinkling as she continues, “It would seem that he’s done his research.”

Or Izzy told him, Yuuri muses wryly.

The only ones who are of course privy to Yuuri’s fondness for blue flowers — a rather curious quirk that he’d developed as a young boy of five due to a long and drawn-out disagreement with Mari who had vehemently disbelieved their existence — were his family, friends, and Minako’s household. And as much as his dear friends would like to believe otherwise, their attempts at finding him a spouse were hardly secret. It is then only reasonable to assume that they were the ones to supply Lord Nikiforov with the knowledge, and it speaks highly of the alpha’s charms that they would do so, for although his companions were eager to see Yuuri wedded, they had the most exacting of tastes and often found any individual who gazed upon him for too long, lacking.

That they had told Lord Nikiforov of his preference for blue flowers is as much an indication of their approval as anything, and it’s hardly a surprise; Yuuri thinks that even Phichit, who can find fault in a saint if given the chance, would find it difficult to disapprove of the man.

Yuuri is certainly finding it hard to do so.

His thoughts war fiercely against each other, leaving his heart in complete and utter turmoil. From what little he can remember of last night’s folly, Lord Nikiforov was beautiful, strong and refined, carrying with him the sort of leonine grace Yuuri’s only ever read about, the scent of him enough to make Yuuri want to take leave of his senses. But more than that, Lord Nikiforov was kind, with warm eyes that looked upon Yuuri as if he was something more than a plain omega who has spent far too long in the Marriage Mart, and gentle hands that made Yuuri feel safe and wanted.

The only unfavorable thing about the man thus far was his atrocious dancing, and that can easily be remedied by a few lessons that Yuuri finds himself more than willing to provide.

“—and I do suppose that he’s handsome enough, or I’d have turned him out at the door,” Yuuko continues blithely, and her words shock Yuuri out of his reverie, causing him to whirl around so that he might turn wide, disbelieving eyes at her.  

“Yuuko!” The admonishment leaves his lips easily, disbelief bleeding into his every word. It’s ridiculous to feel offended on someone else’s behalf, but that is exactly how Yuuri feels, and before he can think much on his next words, he is already opening his mouth to say, “Are you quite certain that you’ve seen Lord Nikiforov? Because I have never seen anyone who is even half as beautiful as he is!”

While his memories may be hazy at best, Yuuri is firm in his belief that one had to be blind not to think Lord Nikiforov beautiful. He’s about to tell Yuuko all about his opinions on the matter, when he catches sight of the way she is obviously swallowing down her laughter, her amusement unmistakable in the impish twinkle of her eyes.

“Oh, you’re terrible,” he groans, barely resisting the urge to slump down against the wall as realization dawns on him in an unwanted rush. Yuuri has known Yuuko for years now and possesses a thorough knowledge of her character, he ought to have known that she would be merciless in her teasing and would possess no compunctions whatsoever about making japes at his expense.

“Yes, yes, I am the absolute worst for making you admit that you think your suitor desirable,” Yuuko says, affecting an apologetic countenance that lasts only for half a breath, before her lips are once again splitting into a wide grin. “Oh, do get in there and put us all out of our misery, Mr. Katsuki!”

Shaking his head, Yuuri takes a deep, bolstering breath and adjusts the fit of his gloves. “Fine,” he says, taking on an appearance of absolute calm and hoping that it would finally drive away the bone-deep trepidation he still feels. “But you must promise that you will save me should the situation become the slightest bit disagreeable.”

And Yuuri is positive that it will.

It is an inevitability, of this he is certain, for surely he will say or do something over the course of afternoon tea to repulse Lord Nikiforov, effectively driving him away forever. Yuuri cannot truly be so lucky as to have an alpha of Lord Nikiforov’s station and breeding asking after him, much less for his hand.

These things simply do not happen outside of the romance novels Sara liked so much, after all.

“You have my word,” Yuuko is quick to reassure him, before adding, “I’ll even ask cook to stage a believable fire.” The quip makes Yuuri shake his head in incredulity, because cook would sooner cut off her hand than even think about setting fire to the kitchen. “However,” she continues, looking so terribly devious that Yuuri is tempted to send her away so that he would not have to hear her next words. “I do think that the only thing you are in danger of is making Lord Nikiforov become even more taken with you.”

“Yuuko!”

“Oh la, sir, we both know that I’m right.”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Yuuri spares Yuuko one last exasperated look, not bothering with a response any longer, before he’s reaching for the ornate door-knob and pushing the door to the drawing-room open.

Next to the extensive library that Minako’s lord husband carefully maintains and his own private chambers, the drawing-room or the Rose Room, as they all liked to call it because of the smell of fresh roses always permeating the air, is one of Yuuri’s favorite rooms in the house. He has spent many a day sitting on the chaise lounge by the wide bay window with a book in his hands, or playing a song for Minako on the pianoforte at the corner. It’s a room that never fails to bring him warmth and comfort, and he draws on those memories and feelings now because the moment he steps inside the Rose Room, Yuuri is hit by Lord Nikiforov’s scent. He knows that what he’s smelling is but the slightest hint of the alpha’s natural fragrance, as Lord Nikiforov would not be uncouth as to go around with his scent unmasked, but even so, Lord Nikiforov’s perfume of cool pine and warm spice is potent in its subtlety and Yuuri already feels faint and scent-drunk, robbed of his good sense and judgment.

The unsteadiness he feels only worsens when he sets his eyes upon the man himself. Yuuri had, for one foolish moment, hoped that Lord Nikiforov was less handsome than what his memory made him out to be, or at the very least, that his brief encounter with the man last night would suitably prepare him to see the alpha once again.

He is, of course, proven wrong on both accounts, because there, illuminated by the warm glow of the afternoon sun streaming in from the wide windows, Lord Nikiforov stood a vision, and nothing could have ever prepared Yuuri for the way the very breath is stolen out of his lungs at the sight.

“Mr. Katsuki,” Lord Nikiforov greets with a bow, sounding almost as breathless as Yuuri feels, and mayhap Yuuko and everyone else had been correct in their suppositions about the sincerity of his regard. Even Yuuri cannot find it in himself to deny the the existence of something writ so clearly on Lord Nikiforov’s face.

“Lord Nikiforov,” Yuuri returns, knees shaking as he curtsies.

He makes an attempt to avert his gaze, to lower his lashes demurely so that he would not be thought of as a brazen country boy of easy virtue, but he is caught, stranded on the shores of Lord Nikiforov’s eyes with no hope of escaping. And Yuuri becomes even more stranded still, rendered completely helpless when Lord Nikiforov reaches down for the large bouquet of blue hydrangeas, a lavish arrangement that Yuuko had enthused about, and rightfully so.

“I—” Lord Nikiforov falters, approaching Yuuri where he’s been anchored near the doorway. He brings with him the bouquet and holds it out with a flourish and the slightest crinkle of paper. “These are for you,” he says, the slightest hint of uncertainty coloring his tone, as if he thinks that Yuuri would ever find cause to turn the flowers away.

It’s a silly thought, especially when Yuuri is taking the bouquet in his hands and looking upon the tiny blue blossoms with eager eyes. None outside of his family and friends have ever given him flowers and certainly not a bouquet of this size, and Yuuri’s elation is so great that it cannot be tempered, and a wide smile spreads like wildfire on his lips. “Thank you,” Yuuri effuses, the blush already on his cheeks turning incandescent along with the brightness of his smile. “They’re beautiful.”

“Certainly not as beautiful as you are,” comes Lord Nikiforov’s quick repartee, moving inexplicably closer so that instead of the honey-like sweetness of the hydrangeas, Yuuri breathes in the smell of winter air and warm musk that has a shiver travelling down his spine.

The base of his neck throbs, and Yuuri can smell the answering burst of fragrance coming from his own scent glands, unhindered by the oils he’d dabbed on his wrists and the hollow of his throat earlier. “You speak too kindly of me, my lord,” he breathes out, swaying precariously as the air between them begins to thicken, their scents coalescing into one heady perfume.

“I speak only the truth.” The rumble of Lord Nikiforov’s words is accompanied by a steadying grasp about his arm that does nothing but make the shaking in Yuuri’s knees return a thousandfold. Lord Nikiforov’s touch is warm even through their gloves, and it is surely obscene how much Yuuri wants to feel it without.

Every instinct urges him to move closer until he can press his nose where Lord Nikiforov’s scent is strongest, and he almost does, if not for Minako clearing her throat right at the exact moment when all of Yuuri’s remaining good sense decides to leave him.

Yuuri immediately stumbles back, eyes wide as his entire face burns and he careens back into awareness. Lord Nikiforov seems equally startled at the noise, and Yuuri looks away hastily lest he find himself lost in the alpha’s gaze yet again. In doing so, he ends up looking at Minako’s raised eyebrow and amused expression, and braces himself for what she is about to say.

“I do believe the tea is ready,” is what Minako says, nodding towards the tea set on the low table. “Yuuri,” Minako continues with a teasing smile that Yuuri is more than familiar with. “Why don’t you pour yourself and Lord Nikiforov a cup?” She asks, cheeks dimpling before she continues. “You both look a bit parched.”

Had Lord Nikiforov not been present, Yuuri would have shrieked and thrown a pillow at Minako before running off to his room and refusing to come out for the foreseeable future. Given the current set of circumstances, Yuuri has no other recourse but to gracefully ignore Minako’s unsubtle insinuations and lead Lord Nikiforov back to the chaise lounge, where they both sit down with a respectable distance between them.

He then sets about preparing the tea, carefully pouring out two cups. It’s a familiar and mundane activity, and yet Lord Nikiforov watches him carefully, as if he has never seen anyone potter about with a teapot before, as if he cannot bear for his eyes to part from Yuuri.

“How do you take your tea, my lord?” Yuuri asks, peering up at Lord Nikiforov, who quickly lets out a sheepish laugh that makes him appear endearingly boyish, and makes Yuuri’s heart flutter wildly in the cage of his chest.

“I normally have it with jam,” Lord Nikiforov says with a smile that Yuuri suddenly wants to trace with his lips. “Which I’m well aware sounds rather strange.”

“It does,” Yuuri acquiesces as he hands the cup over, because it _is_ strange and he’s never before heard of anyone putting jam in their tea. “But I think I would like to try it that way sometime in the future.”

The smile on Lord Nikiforov’s face widens even further at his words, and before Yuuri can do anything other than let his lips part in a gasp, hands enclosed in soft leather envelope his, so that he and Lord Nikiforov are now cradling the cup together, their fingers interlacing. “Then perhaps the next time I make a call, I shall bring with me some jam.”

Whatever reply Yuuri could have mustered at that moment is quickly swept away by Minako clearing her throat yet again, this time even more forcefully, and they both disentangle their hands from each other as if they’d been burned. The blush on his cheeks has now spread, trickling down his chest in blotchy red patches, and beneath his gloves, Yuuri’s fingertips tingle with a warmth that came not from the tea.

A terse beat of silence follows, broken only by the tinkling of silverware against fine bone china. It is only when Yuuri has taken a generous sip of his tea — piping hot and sickly sweet — that he dares to break it.

“I thank you, my lord, for humoring my request,” he says, setting his teacup down on its saucer.

“Humoring your request?” Lord Nikiforov echoes, tone incredulous, brows furrowing as he too abandons his teacup on the table.

For a moment, Yuuri thinks that he’s finally done it — has caused some offense to scare Lord Nikiforov away, but Lord Nikiforov only shifts in his seat and takes Yuuri’s hands in his yet again, heedless of the pointed glance Minako gives them.

“You must forgive my impertinence, Mr. Katsuki,” Lord Nikiforov says, and Yuuri has the sudden and most startling thought that he would be willing to forgive Lord Nikiforov for anything if he continues to look at Yuuri as he does now. “But had you not extended your invitation last night, I would have strived to find a way to earn the privilege of your audience and eventually, your hand. Trust me when I say that I would have been prepared to do just about anything for a chance to gaze upon your countenance once more.”

The words are spoken clearly in Lord Nikiforov’s rich voice, but it still takes Yuuri a while to parse and understand their meaning. “But—” he hesitates, uncertain how to begin, because while he detects not a single trace of artifice in Lord Nikiforov’s words, Yuuri understands not why he is at the receiving end of such regard and devotion. “I know what it is I’ve asked of you last night,” Yuuri begins to say again, looking into Lord Nikiforov’s bright blue eyes. “But surely you cannot mean to—”

“Why not?” Lord Nikiforov asks before Yuuri can continue with the rest of his words, and adding, with a gentle squeeze to his hands that might as well have been a squeeze around his trembling heart, “I have no greater wish than to make an offer for you and have you as my husband.”

“Why?” Yuuri whispers, voice teeming with emotion. For years, he has hoped and waited — at first for Minako’s sake and his family’s, and then for his own traitorous heart when seasons came and went without a single suitor in sight — to hear those words, and to hear them now, when he has not even the glimmer of youth to excuse his lack of beauty and fortune, feels like the cruelest jape. “You can do so much better than me, my lord.”

“Yuuri!” Minako scolds and Yuuri looks to her with wild eyes.

“What? It’s true and we all know it!” He snaps before hastily turning his attentions back to Lord Nikiforov, who is staring at him with wide eyes — no doubt horrified at his lack of decorum. “A gentleman of your standing is surely not wanting for prospects. Why you would want an unremarkable omega past his prime is beyond me.”

At his pronouncement, Lord Nikiforov lets out a noise of distress, before his grip around Yuuri’s hands loosens and he gets to his feet, only to go down on one knee by the next moment. Yuuri barely has time to process what the gesture means, because Lord Nikiforov is once again reaching for his hand and looking up at him with earnest eyes.

“If I may be so bold, my dear Mr. Katsuki,” Lord Nikiforov starts, and the endearment has Yuuri’s heart racing and clamoring for release from inside the cage of his chest. “I have travelled to many a distant land and I have seen a great number of people, but I have never met anyone who is as compelling and as beautiful as you are. You are singular, Mr. Katsuki, and I wish to know you and have you by my side for the rest of my days.”

Each word plucks at every fiber of his being, and as unseemly as it is, Yuuri finds himself grasping desperately for Lord Nikiforov’s hand. The action earns him an answering squeeze and if his cheeks had not been burning already, then they certainly are now.

“My mind and my heart are one in this decision, and my affections and wishes will remain unchanged, and, should you consider my offer, I vow that you will want for nothing.” Lord Nikiforov says, before slowly adding, “but if you have no wish for me to court you and ask for your hand, then you need only say the word and I will keep my silence on this matter for ever and will bother you no longer.”

Yuuri feels cut to the quick by Lord Nikiforov’s speech, and it is but a moment’s choice to allow himself to be swept away by the sincerity in Lord Nikiforov’s voice, the sweetness of his promises — to be selfish, _just this once_. “Only if it pleases you.”

“What?”

“You have my leave to court me,” Yuuri clarifies, a hesitant smile blooming slowly on his lips. “But only if it pleases you.”

Letting out a disbelieving laugh, Lord Nikiforov says, “It pleases me greatly.”

 

.

 

Seventeen years.

Georgi has known Viktor for seventeen long years. They had grown up together, their boyhood years blurring into gawky adolescence until they had presented within a week of each other — him as a beta and Viktor, an alpha. They had worked countless days under the sun together, and had spent years sleeping in the same, cramped room aboard the _Aria_. Georgi has seen Viktor pale and shaken, coughing up seawater after falling overboard, has seen him murderous and seething after a business deal gone wrong, has even seen him beaten and bloody after a drunken fight in a dingy tavern, but never has he seen Viktor so incredibly happy that he’s almost incandescent with it.

It’s a peculiar sight, and draws attention to the fact that Georgi cannot quite recall the last time he has seen Viktor happy, or if he has ever actually seen Viktor truly happy at all. Ever since they were children, Viktor has always had a knack for putting on a mask — pretending that everything was all right even though it wasn’t, carrying on with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes — and he’s only gotten better at it with time and experience. It is then incredibly jarring to see Viktor without his placid mask, practically bursting at the seams with sheer delight, and Georgi can do naught but sit and stare while Viktor prances about the salle, feeling as if he has just been granted a great boon at the mere sight.

“—and he dances so beautifully,” Viktor sighs, dancing along the piste and fluidly dodging a fleche from Yuri. Before Yuri can recover his stance, Viktor advances with a quick jab of his foil that has that has the boy hastily retreating with a growl that goes largely ignored. “I cannot wait to dance with him soon.”

“Is that why you’ve been taking lessons with the Madame again?” Mila asks from her perch by the wide bay window, drawing Viktor’s attentions further away from an increasingly incensed Yuri. Georgi ought to intervene, perhaps pick up another foil to prevent Yuri from throwing a fit, but Mila’s words also pique at his interest because he can still remember quite clearly how Viktor had, during their youth, faked a ridiculous number of maladies and injuries just to avoid the Madame’s lessons.

To hear that Viktor has once again taken up dancing lessons with the Madame, this time willingly, sounds like a fantastical impossibility if not for the way Viktor nods with a sheepish little smile. “Mr. Katsuki is a most accomplished dancer and it would not do for me to not be proficient in it.”

“By Jove, Vitya.” Huffing out a disbelieving laugh, Mila jumps down from the window sill, her bright green banyan billowing behind her as she makes for the sofa. “It’s barely been a week into your courtship and you’re already like this. What did you end up sending him today?” She asks, settling down beside Georgi with a rustle of fabric.

“A bouquet of irises and a fan,” comes Viktor’s reply, which explains why Georgi has seen Altin running about the townhouse carrying an assortment of flowers for the past few days.

Mila snorts. “A fan?” She asks, tone bordering on derisive as she turns to him with incredulous eyes. Georgi can only shrug back, which seems to be the response that she wants from him because Mila is once again leveling her gaze at Viktor. “Vitya, really.”

“What?” Viktor demands, “I sent him a pair of satin gloves yesterday and a lace handkerchief the day before. The shopkeeper thought that they were perfectly decent courting gifts.”

“Yes,” Mila says slowly, in that familiar tone of voice that she uses whenever she was about to say something that they wouldn’t like, and it isn’t lost on Viktor, who frowns and finally steps out of the piste, much to Yuri’s consternation. “But they’re all rather impersonal and uninteresting aren’t they?” She continues blithely, gathering the open edges of her robe as she folds her legs underneath her, the picture of perfect comfort. She allows Viktor a few seconds to digest her words before she adds with a devious little grin she turns at him, “Zhora, what do you think?”

Georgi is perhaps too old to box Mila’s ears like he used to when they were younger, and so he merely settles for flicking her on the nose as Viktor proceeds to lay the full weight of his gaze on him. “Well, aside from dancing, what else does your Mr. Katsuki enjoy?” He asks. It is, he feels, a reasonable and safe question, that is, until he witnesses the smile fall off of Viktor’s lips, replaced by a deep frown.

“I—I don’t actually know,” Viktor confesses, looking increasingly stricken as he continues, “all I know is that he likes blue flowers and that he dances like a dream.”

For a few beats of silence, Georgi can only but marvel at how different Viktor is just days after meeting Mr. Katsuki and cannot help but think that love — and surely Viktor must be in the throes of it — truly does bring about incredible change in people. He never thought he would be witness to such a thing in Viktor; in the seventeen years Georgi had known him, not once had he seen Viktor show any sort of ardent affection for anyone aside from his dog. Unlike himself, Viktor has never had any sort of romantic entanglements, and to see him now in the thick of it, panicking like a green boy, is amusing and disconcerting in equal measures.

“As Mila says, it’s barely been a week into your courtship, Vitya,” Georgi finally says, ignoring Mila’s giggling, and _oh_ , he cannot wait to see her rendered foolish by love too. “Surely you would have countless more opportunities to get to know your Mr. Katsuki. If things go well, you would have the rest of your life to do so.”

“Yes, of course. You’re right,” Viktor says, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Zhora.”

Before Georgi can offer a response, Yuri is stomping towards them, wearing a thunderous mien. “Are you actually going to teach me fencing or are you going to spend the entire afternoon talking about your simpering om—”

Yuri does not get the chance to continue with his speech because Viktor is swinging at him, metal singing in the air as the tip of the foil stops just in front of Yuri’s nose. Beside him, Mila lets out a soft curse, taking the scene in with wide, frightened eyes.

“What was that, Yura?” Viktor asks sweetly, a sharp smile glinting on his lips, accompanied by a sudden bitter spike of his scent, suffusing the air with tension. “From the beginning, I think,” he continues when Yuri averts his gaze to the ground; a begrudging show of submission. “Your footwork is sloppy.”

 

.

 

When Yuuri steps out into crisp morning air, Mari is already waiting for him by the carriage, attired in her nicest suit — made of dark red worsted wool that Yuuri remembers cutting into patterns for his Mama — confirming once and for all that his older sister turning up seemingly out of the aether and demanding that Yuuri wake up and get dressed right this instant, had not been some fantastical fever dream that Yuuri’s sleep-addled mind had concocted. His sister truly was here in town, and was already getting into a row with a messenger as she is wont to. At the sound of raised voices, Yuuri hastens down the stone steps, Kenjirou fluttering worriedly behind him, and steps in neatly beside Mari, a placid smile already on his face.

As soon as he comes into view, the messenger bows low in greeting, and after four days of receiving such a salutation despite all his insistence otherwise, Yuuri lets it be and gives the messenger a nod of his own. After Lord Nikiforov’s call, wherein the alpha had made clear his intentions to court him, Yuuri has received a bouquet of blue flowers every day along with an assortment of courting gifts. It had become something of a game for Minako’s household to guess what kind of flower would grace the crystal vase in his bedroom, as well as to what trinket Lord Nikiforov has decided to send today.

From where he’s standing, Yuuri recognizes the bouquet in the messenger’s hands to be composed of a combination of blue and white delphiniums, and judging from the way Kenjirou perks up at the sight, Yuuri’s young maid has just won himself the not-inconsiderable pool that’s been going around the house.

“Mr. Katsuki!” The messenger greets, holding out the bouquet and a small parcel wrapped in cream-colored paper. “From his lordship,” the boy adds, as if there was any question as to who would be sending Yuuri the gifts.

With a gloved hand, Yuuri reaches for the bouquet, letting Kenjirou take the parcel in his stead. “Thank you,” Yuuri says, nodding again at the messenger. “Please do tell his lordship that these are lovely as always.”

“Aye,” the messenger replies before giving Yuuri one last low bow and scurrying down the cobblestone streets.

“Your mysterious suitor knows about the blue flowers?” Mari asks, once the messenger has disappeared from view, and the three of them are left standing in front of Minako’s townhouse.

“Izzy told him,” he says, answering the unasked question lingering in the corners of his sister’s amused smile. At his words, Mari’s smile only widens, taking on a teasing quality that has Yuuri blushing up to his ears as if in preparation for whatever jape Mari is sure to make. “Oh shush, Mari,” Yuuri snaps, the flush on his face only deepening as Mari begins to giggle under her breath. He’s about to hand the flowers to Kenjirou when Mari stills him with a hand to his shoulder and proceeds to pluck off a few blooms. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, Mari has him turn around, and Yuuri does so whilst rolling his eyes, because even as a man grown, his sister still has him feeling like a green boy. “Hold still,” Mari says, fiddling with the elaborate style Yuuko had twisted his hair into. “There we are,” she says before reaching for the bouquet still in his hands, and passing it on to Kenjirou. “Now you can go and put these in a vase.”

Silence follows Mari’s instructions, and Yuuri looks over his shoulder to see Kenjirou obviously hesitating and reluctant to leave him alone with Mari.

“It’s fine, Kenjirou,” Yuuri assures his young maid. “You may go.”

They watch Kenjirou ascend the steps slowly, throwing worried glances back at Yuuri every third step. It’s only when the large, oak door closes behind him that Mari speaks again, an incredulous look writ on her face.

“Does he not trust me with you?”

“Well, you did show up rather suddenly and dragged me out of bed by the ankles,” Yuuri points out

It had Yuuri kicking and screaming, fear cutting through the haze of sleep, and he didn’t know what else he would have done if he had not heard Mari’s familiar laughter ringing inside his room. The last time Mari had woken him up like that, he’d been a newly presented omega and he’d ran away to Portsmouth with plans to hide in his childhood bedroom for ever, but his sister had dragged him out of bed and back to London and Minako, who had taken him in with nary a single word of complaint. For the longest time, Yuuri had believed that he would never be woken up so violently ever again, at least until this very morning.

“What? It’s how I’ve always woken you up,” Mari says as they both climb up the carriage, the door held open by Nishigori who had been watching the proceedings in silent amusement. Once he’s seated, Mari makes a show of taking him in, and if he’d been standing, Yuuri has no doubt that she would have made him spin around too. “Oh good,” she quips after a few moments, “Mama would be pleased to know that the dress fits you perfectly. She was worried that it wouldn’t.”

Straightening in his seat, Yuuri protests, “Mama shouldn’t have bothered. This must have cost a small fortune.”

Fortune that they most certainly did _not_ have.  

“She made it herself, Yuuri,” Mari drawls, as if telling him that would lessen the worry in Yuuri’s mind. If anything, the knowledge only agitates him even further, because his Mama could have spent the time resting instead and used the money for food or repairs for the inn. “And the muslin was given to her by a passing merchant who couldn’t pay for his stay at the inn.”

“You could have sold it!”

Thanks to Minako and her modiste, Yuuri is never wanting for clothes. Ever since his presentation, the number of dresses, suits, cloaks, and other raiments in his closet has only grown with each passing season, and Yuuri feels very much like a clotheshorse whenever he spares more than a passing thought for it. If he had his way, Yuuri would spend his days in his oldest, most worn linen shirts and a pair of pantaloons, and never bother with his fitted suits and flimsy dresses ever again.

Leaning back against her seat, Mari merely hums and smiles serenely back at him before saying, “If this is how you react to the dress, I’d hate to see how you’d react to this.” At the word, his sister reaches for an elongated parcel wrapped in brown paper stashed underneath her seat and tosses it to him, leaving Yuuri no recourse but to catch it lest it clatter to the carriage floor.

The paper crinkles in his grasp as he peels it off, trepidation filling him entire when beneath the paper, he feels smooth cotton and delicate lace. “Mari!” Yuuri cries in admonishment when he finally finishes tearing the paper away, and a finely-made parasol with a polished handle, the likes of which he’d only seen in the glittering shops that line Burlington Arcade, sits on his lap.

“If you’re going to be a proper, high society omega, it is only fitting that you own a parasol,” Mari explains with a satisfied smile, completely and utterly unruffled in the face of his growing horror. “Oh, do stop worrying.”

“How can I not worry when I have seen the state of our finances?”

Months have passed and still Yuuri cannot forget the contents of Mari’s last missive; written in his sister’s messy scrawl, it had spoken of the decline in the number of guests visiting their inn, and how if this trend continues, they might be forced to close the inn and sell it for a pittance. Mari had also enclosed a copy of the month’s accounts, which upon perusal, only corroborated the contents of her note. He’d been inconsolable for days, and only Minako’s repeated assurances regarding the matter and his fear of adding to his family’s already tenuous financial situation stopped him from making the trip to Portsmouth.

“Allow me to worry about our finances,” Mari says after a long pause, a somber mien alighting upon her features. “You just worry about your gentleman caller.”

“ _Mari_.”

“ _Yuuri_.” This time, Mari rolls her eyes at him, clearly exasperated. “Everything’s all right,” she assures him, but Yuuri remains unconvinced. He’d run the numbers himself after all; they would need an exorbitant amount of money if they intend to keep the inn, an amount that, unless the heavens allow them a small miracle, would be impossible to get given the current state of their affairs. “Why do you think I’m in town in the first place?” Mari asks apropos of nothing, putting a halt to his thoughts. “I’m here for a business deal, which is why I’m bringing my most trusted bookkeeper to make sure everything is in order.”

“A business deal?” Yuuri echoes as he stares at Mari with wide eyes. “Is that where we’re headed?” A quick glance out the window offers him no clues as to where Mari plans to take him — they were in the middle of London still and their carriage showed no signs of stopping anytime soon, doesn’t even slow down when they approach the various exchanges and bazaars in town.

He’s about to press for more details but before he can do so, Mari is saying, “Yes, but do tell me about your suitor first.”

Yuuri briefly considers refusing, but in the end, acquiesces because he’s never once won against his sister without his Mama’s interference. “Fine,” he says, and starts telling Mari all about Lord Nikiforov. He narrates how they met, quickly going over how he’d made an utter fool of himself by yelling at an alpha whilst drunk, leaving out the more scandalous parts because he’d rather not have Mari challenging Lord Nikiforov to defend his honor. When he arrives at the part about Lord Nikiforov’s call, he makes an effort to curtail his delight, but try as he might, Yuuri’s entire being sings at the memory, and for a moment, he’s able to let go of the worry he has for his family at the thought of Lord Nikiforov’s sweet words. “He wishes to make me his spouse and has been courting me for the past few days.”

“Do you wish to marry him?”

Yuuri would be daft not to, but while he cannot help but believe Lord Nikiforov’s sincerity, Yuuri knows that someone like him would not be anyone’s first, second, or even third choice for a husband, and that Lord Nikiforov would be very much justified should he decide to change his mind. “If he will have me—” he begins, only to waver at Mari’s raised eyebrow, before he continues, honesty coating his every word, “Yes, yes, of course I do.”

“You are absolutely smitten with this man, aren’t you?” Mari asks wonderingly, and Yuuri feels a bright flush erupt on his cheeks at the question.

He manages a giggle, because not only is he absolutely and incredibly smitten — “I think I can grow to love him, Mari.” The words leave Yuuri’s lips in a whisper, afraid that if he says it any louder, fate might snatch this little bit of happiness away.

It is mayhap too sudden and careless of him to feel as such. Yuuri is no longer a freshly-flowered omega to become prey to such precipitous feelings, but there’s something about the alpha that makes Yuuri _want_ — to own and be owned in return, to have those blue eyes on him forevermore, to feel Lord Nikiforov’s touch on his bare skin. It scares and thrills him in equal measure, and Yuuri knows not what he ought to do, for this is the very first and perhaps, the only time that he has and will ever feel this way about anyone.

“Well, then, I can only wish you the best, little brother,” Mari finally says, gentle in her countenance and tone, the squeeze she gives his hand gentler still. “And offer you my blessing, should you have need for it.”

He feels his heart squeeze inside his chest at Mari’s words and Yuuri manages a shaky smile in response. “I will always have need for it,” Yuuri says with a touch to his sister’s hand.

The rest of the ride passes by in comfortable silence as their carriage leaves behind the familiar streets of Mayfair and makes for the direction of the Thames. Having grown up under the shadows of the massive trading vessels that docked at Portsmouth, Yuuri is more than aware of the kinds of business ventures his sister may have undertaken if they were headed to the port, and he calls them to mind now as their carriage hurries down the narrow streets. Before long, tall masts and billowing sails appear in the skyline, and Yuuri is reminded why he avoids going near the Port of London if he could help it; the sight of ships and the blue of the endless ocean stretching into the horizon always awakened in him a yearning for home, and he feels that yearning even more strongly now with Mari’s presence.

“We’re here,” Mari intones, just as their carriage lurches to a stop right in front of a schooner.

Outside the carriage booms a flurry of activity; with sailors yelling at each other in a confusing mixture of different languages and ragamuffins chasing each other around, making a nuisance of themselves, as crates filled with goods are unloaded and carted off to warehouses and bazaars. Even with the carriage door still firmly shut, Yuuri can already smell the miasma emanating from outside — brine, sweat, and the undiluted scents of everyone in the port. If he hadn’t gone and dabbed some menthol under his nose before leaving the house, then he would be doubly affected by the stench.

As it is, Yuuri still has to reach into his reticule for the small vial of menthol oil he always brings along. Aside from his family, friends, and most recently, Lord Nikiforov, he’s never cared much for other people’s scents, and Yuuri applies more menthol under his nose and over his scent glands under Mari’s watchful eye.

“Ready?”

At his nod, Mari pushes the carriage door open and proceeds to clamber down, Yuuri following at a much more sedate pace, his new parasol at the ready. They earn more than a few bemused stares, attired as they are in clothes much more befitting an assembly hall than a bustling port, and only Mari’s infectious tenacity has Yuuri ignoring them all as he follows after her towards the schooner’s gangway, where she immediately draws someone into a conversation. Instead of joining in, Yuuri stops a few feet away, content to look around.

The schooner or the _Aria_ , as the white lettering on its side proclaims, is a thing of beauty and Yuuri feels his breath taken away at the sight. Long before his presentation, even before Lord Cialdini took him on as a ward and sponsored his education, Yuuri once entertained the idea of becoming a sailor, of travelling the world and seeing all the sights he’d only ever heard of and read about. He thinks back on it now, a forlorn sigh leaving his lips at the memory because he certainly won’t be becoming a sailor and traveling the world any time soon, except mayhap if —

“ _Mr. Katsuki?_ ”

Yuuri startles at the sound of his name, and he hastily spins about and almost drops his parasol when he sees just who it is who called him.

“Lord Nikiforov?” Yuuri breathes out, eyes widening and cheeks flushing.

Unlike the last time Yuuri’s seen the man, dressed in a fitted suit in the season’s style, Lord Nikiforov was currently only attired in a thin, linen shirt that’s soaked through with sweat and dark trousers that appeared to be painted on with how tightly they hugged Lord Nikiforov’s legs. It takes a fair bit of effort to turn his gaze upwards, and when he does finally manage it, Yuuri quickly regrets ever taking his gaze off of Lord Nikiforov’s legs.

Because instead of looking bedraggled and unkempt from the sweat dotting his brow and the stubble covering his cheeks, Lord Nikiforov only looks temptingly rough and rugged. Yuuri suddenly understands why the authors of the books Phichit bullies him into reading were all seemingly obsessed with wild and feral alphas. He’d thought the concept strange, but he sees the appeal of it now, especially as Lord Nikiforov carefully puts down the large crate he’d been carrying and the thick, corded muscles of his bare forearms bunch at the motion.

Yuuri absently wonders if those muscles would bunch the same way if Lord Nikiforov were to lift him up and carry him.

He doesn’t have the chance to examine those thoughts further as Lord Nikiforov suddenly appears by his side, and Yuuri is immediately assaulted by the scent of him, rich and overwhelming even through the menthol he’d dabbed on. His entire being feels as if it’s been set ablaze, his loins aquiver, and Yuuri would be embarrassed by his reactions, but he dares anyone to not be affected by the sight, smell, and — _oh, dear heavens_ — the touch of a very handsome and very virile alpha such as Lord Nikiforov.  

“Are you all right, Mr. Katsuki?” Lord Nikiforov asks with a hand curled around Yuuri’s bare arm. The touch is electric, making Yuuri suddenly aware of the insistent throb of his mating gland underneath the thin choker Yuuko had fastened on his neck.

“I’m quite well,” Yuuri answers once he’s gathered his wits. “I—” he begins, trying in vain to not appear like some lovestruck fool and failing completely. “What are you doing here?”

Lord Nikiforov nods at something behind Yuuri. “Business,” he says, “We’ve recently received a new shipment from the Orient, and a few of our men have gone home to their families which is why I’m helping out.” Countenance suddenly turning sheepish, Lord Nikiforov adds, “I had not anticipated on our paths crossing today, and I deeply apologize that you should see me in such an unkempt state.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Yuuri blurts out, shaking his head, because if anything, he’s incredibly thankful to have seen Lord Nikiforov in such a state. “As a matter of fact, I—” he hesitates, attention caught by the bead of sweat dripping down the side of Lord Nikiforov’s cheek, and before he’s completely aware of what he’s doing, Yuuri’s pulling out his handkerchief and wiping away the sweat glistening on Lord Nikiforov’s face.

When he pulls his hand back, Lord Nikiforov appears nearly as dazed as he feels, and Yuuri tries to cling to some semblance of control by saying, “I think it quite admirable that you’re here and that you’re taking such an active hand in your chosen trade.”

“I ought to replace that,” Lord Nikiforov rumbles in a tone of voice that makes Yuuri’s core pulse with heat, motioning at the soiled handkerchief. “I’ve been under the sun all day—”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri interrupts, hiding the handkerchief in his reticule lest Lord Nikiforov take it away. “I don’t mind.”

Close as they are, Yuuri hears Lord Nikiforov’s sharp intake of breath and the way his pupils dilate in response to his statement, and he feels his cheeks burn even further at his own brazenness. They may be in the middle of courting, but to keep something that carries one’s scent is simply unheard of, and propriety dictates that Yuuri surrender the handkerchief, except Yuuri finds that he cares not for decorum if it means having a trace of Lord Nikiforov’s addicting scent in his possession.  

Visibly floundering for words to say, Lord Nikiforov finally settles on, “if you don’t mind my asking, what brings you to the port?”

“Business,” Yuuri says, and has to bite down on a curse as he’s violently reminded just as to why he’s here in the first place. He looks over his shoulder to search for Mari, eyes darting about the crowded port for a sign of his sister. “I’m actually here with my—” he trails off worriedly when he finally catches sight of Mari marching towards them with a thunderous mien on her face.  

“ _Yuuri?"_

“—sister.”  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neechan's on the war path. Or is she?
> 
> This was supposed to be longer?? But the writing machine is no longer working and I just wanted to have this out into the world because otherwise, I'd be tempted to delete everything. I do hope that this is the slightest bit enjoyable. We're moving kinda slowly now, but we'll be picking up the pace by next chapter. Hopefully.
> 
> Please water mine and Yuuri's crops by commenting!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [honey to my mouth, pasture to mine eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914103) by [alykapedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alykapedia/pseuds/alykapedia)




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